The Gulf Between
by MrsSwords
Summary: An AU story set before the original feature film. It's August 1990, and Sam and Jack are both called up to serve in the Gulf War. When their paths cross, what lasting impact do they make on each other?
1. Duty

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the show.**

**A/N: I debated with myself about whether or not to put any chapters up before the story was complete. In the end, I decided that I am so new to writing that any criticism/pointers/comments from reviewers would be invaluable to me in this process. So please read and review. Thank you.**

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**1.**

**Duty**

"_Jack. It's David. Look, I know this isn't standard procedure. I'd prefer not to leave a message like this on your machine. I called up to the house but your neighbour said you'd headed to the cabin with Sara and Charlie. Technically, the usual seven days applies, but we need you in ASAP. See you in Florida, Jack. I am sorry. Oh, and give me a call before you head down."_

_**August 4th 1990, Minnesota**_

In the pre-dawn chill, a thick blanket of mist had settled over the lake and surrounding countryside. Daylight broke over the horizon. Jack stood at the edge of the deck, feet bare, arms folded across his chest. He'd pulled on an old Cubs jersey to keep himself warm, but now it seemed like a comfort that he didn't really deserve. He discarded it at his feet, standing in just jeans and a t-shirt, and sucked in a breath as the cold air hit him full force.

He stared at the water's surface, still inky black but brimming with activity as the fish rose to feed. For a minute he thought about going back inside for his pole, but that too felt like it would be a reward of some kind. He wasn't out here for fun. This morning, he wanted to be an observer to life instead of a participant. He wished he could disappear, flow along with the air currents and dissipate with the rising of the sun.

Minutes went by and the air rushed over him as the sun gained strength and started burning up the haze. It was like a cool finger against the back of his neck and it raised the pale hairs on his arms. It was often like this on autumn mornings in Minnesota. The days were still warm, but the cold was taking firm hold of the nights. It matched the coldness in his gut that was creeping slowly up into his chest. He thought, wished, standing exposed the way he was, pretending to be one with his surroundings, that the sun would chase it away and leave him lighter and warmer. But he'd been recalled to active duty and he knew nothing would shake this feeling. He was all twisted up with fear and anxiety and guilt. He was leaving Sara and Charlie again and it was too soon. Charlie was so young and Jack knew he was missing some of the most important moments of his life. He might not get a second chance at this, and always the same questions came to him. Why was he still doing this? How much more could Sara take? His limbs were taut with the tension, his jaw clenched and unclenched. The feeling welled up into his throat, looking for escape. It came out as a hollow, snorted, laugh and in the heavy air the sound seemed to drop like a stone at his feet. He imagined that it was a tangible thing that he could kick off of the deck, that it would hit the water and sink straight down into the murk. Even on the brightest day, with the lake at its calmest, it would be impossible to find.

He was feeling something else too, and he hated himself for it. He was excited. The anticipation was growing along with the guilt. His body remembered the rushes of adrenaline, and he suddenly felt like an addict about to fall off of the wagon. He hoped that Sara couldn't see it in him. It would be like a kick in the gut for her no matter how much she knew this was tearing him up inside. He wasn't that kind of man - not some cliché action hero who lived from mission to mission and kept a family to fill up the time in between.

He stood perfectly still then, but he was already aware of her, even before she'd set foot on the creaking deck, even before he'd turned his head. It was as if wishing she would never see him this way had instead caused her to materialise, conjured from the gathered morning light. The universe was a cruel and unusual place.

He turned towards her, hoping she would see everything he wanted to tell her written on his face, that he wouldn't need to say the words. He wasn't great with expressing himself that way and he didn't trust his own voice. Her mouth was set in a grim smile but her eyes were desperately sad. Even though she walked towards him he felt her pulling away from him. He was looking at her from a great distance and no matter how much ground she covered she wasn't getting any closer.

"Jack, you must be freezing."

Always the mother. He gave her the best smile he could muster, but it came out lopsided and weary. "It could be worse."

"No. It really couldn't." She practically choked the words out and it was quite clear that she wasn't talking about the cold.

"Sara…"

"I know. I know you have to go. I know you thought you had longer. I know." She was standing right at his shoulder now but she still seemed so far away. Her voice was small. "Knowing doesn't make it any easier to bear."

"I'm sorry."

"I know that too." She slipped her hand into his and then pulled it up against her chest. She gripped him so hard her knuckles were turning white and her nails started digging into his flesh. Jack took the pain without flinching. It gave his mind something else to focus on, and he thought he deserved it anyway. It was nothing compared to what she was enduring for him. Had been enduring for years.

He wondered how many times she'd thought about leaving him. Sara was a strong woman but he knew her limits and he knew _her_, the way she reasoned things out, the way her mind worked. She'd likely given herself ultimatums on numerous occasions. _If he walks away one more time, then I'm walking away too. _How many times had she talked herself into staying? There was no lack of love between them. It was so evident that Jack knew that without Sara he'd probably be dead. In desperate times his mind reached for her, clung to her, and his body followed. Somehow, he always made it back. And she was always there, so he always felt loved. Did his returning to her each time make her feel the same way? Or did she need more?

He wished he could just ask her, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Thankfully, she hadn't noticed him gasping like a fish out of water as he tried to articulate his thoughts. She was looking out over the lake. He studied her profile carefully. Even in this light he could tell she'd been crying. _Oh Sara... _He pulled her into him then and held her tightly, resting his cheek on her crown of dark hair. For a moment she still clung to his hand which was now trapped between their bodies. Finally, she released it and he felt her arms slide around his waist. They trembled against him and so he gripped her tighter. Her whole body was shaking now, wracked with sobs. She was trying so hard to be dignified about it too, which made it so much worse. Even though she was so raw, she still had her shield up, still had to be the tough military wife. Jack felt despair bloom in the pit of his stomach.

"You don't have to be so goddamn brave all the time, y'know." His tone was stern but soft. "I know this isn't what you signed up for."

There was a long pause and he could feel her trying to get herself under control again. She took deep, shuddering, breaths.

"Yes I do. There isn't just one of us waiting for you anymore Jack, so I have to be brave for Charlie. He's too young to be worrying about his daddy. It was easier before..." She trailed off but Jack knew what she meant. Before Charlie, she didn't have to hide her pain and uncertainty, or her loneliness. Now she bottled it up for the sake of their child and it was eating away at her.

"Maybe Charlie should go stay with your folks for a little while?"

She extricated herself gently from his embrace and swiped at her eyes with a sleeve. But Jack saw that she was smiling, genuinely smiling.

"You are such a 'guy', Jack."

"Well… yeah…" He was confused by the sudden change in tone.

"No, what I mean is that you think you can just fix things. Sara needs some time alone, so give her some time alone."

"Seems pretty logical to me?"

"Except that things never actually work that way. It's never THAT simple. Daddy leaves and then Mommy sends him to Grandma and Grandpa's. He'll be so confused."

"But he loves your folks. And your mom spoils him rotten. He'll be so hepped up on sugar that it'll take him a week to calm down and start missing you." He smiled to himself at the thought of his little boy bouncing around and getting into mischief. "Besides, your folks can focus all their time and energy on him, and you can't. You need to focus on you for a little while."

There was silence between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Jack felt the space between them closing. She was here with him now. All of her.

"You're better at this than you think." She placed her hands on his chest, fingers spread, palms flat. It sent a little jolt of electricity through him.

"Like a B movie. I'm so bad I'm good."

She chuckled and the sound was light and warm, spreading through his insides. The chill was gone, from the air as well as his body. Sara was his sun. He hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his, searching for any signs of hesitation. He was feeling uncertain about this new ground they were standing on – still not quite sure it was steady enough.

She met him half-way, pushing up on the balls of her feet to close the distance between their mouths. He was a little surprised by her sureness, her sudden strength, but he was heartened and more than a little relieved. Not half-an-hour earlier he'd been thoroughly convinced this day would end with his world crumbling around him. That he would leave for his assignment separated, contemplating visitation schedules for Charlie. _Thank goodness for Sara_.

He came out of his reverie when she started backing out of his arms, but she didn't break their contact. Instead, threading her fingers through his, she pulled him back towards the cabin. His eyebrows shot up, and he looked so bemused that she laughed. It rang in his ears. He hadn't heard her laugh like that in a while.

"Charlie won't be up for ages." She smiled. "He's like you – hates getting out of bed."

"Only when I don't have to!" He replied defensively. "Years of getting nothing more than catnaps will do that to a man."

"Makes you age prematurely too."

"Hey! Now that was uncalled for. What kind of 'school of seduction' did you attend anyway?" He pretended to pull away from her but she held tight and gave him a tug. He practically fell through the doorway into the cabin.

This was now more familiar ground to him. Jack's default mechanism for dealing with tough situations was humour. Sometimes, he thought blackly, it was a P90. But humour was better. He often thought that the world would be a much better place if only he could disarm an enemy soldier with a quip. Not that he didn't try on occasion – they just weren't really big fans. In any case, somewhere along the way he'd taught Sara to do the same thing. So this was the game they played when he was about to head off on a mission. They joked so that their love-making wouldn't seem so melancholy. There was no escaping the fact that they were saying their goodbyes and neither of them knew if he was coming back.

Jack tried to push the swirl of chatter in his head aside, and focused instead on his beautiful wife. After all these years she could still look at him with a hunger that made his body hum. He took a step over towards the bed, but then turned back to the door to lock it. It caught a little because it was hardly ever used. Charlie probably wouldn't be up for a few more hours, but he wasn't taking any chances.

He made a face. "Hope we can get that back open again."

"If we don't you won't be able to leave."

"But you'll have a five-year-old running rampant around the cabin."

"Trust you to see the bad side."

"I'm not. He could tire himself out and we'll have the rest of the day to ourselves." He grinned at her and her smile widened to match his. "Or, he'll probably just fall in the lake. Or eat the soap under the sink when he gets hungry."

She was kneeling on the bed now and reached out to pull him towards her. "Shut up, Jack." He didn't resist. No more games this morning.

Later that day, Charlie would bring Jack his Cubs jersey and ask him why it had been lying out on the deck. Jack just smiled and ruffled his son's hair. When Charlie asked him again, he lied that Bigfoot had borrowed it because he was a huge Cub's fan, but had taken it off to go for a swim and forgotten it when the ranger came along. Jack told him that was the sort of thing little boys missed out on when they slept all morning. Luckily, Sara hadn't heard.


	2. Little Soldier Boy

**2. **

**Little Soldier Boy**

_**August 5th 1990, Minnesota**_

On Sunday morning Sara dropped him off in town so he could pick up a rental and head back to Colorado. She'd protested. He'd insisted. There was no way he was dragging her and Charlie all the way home just so he could pick up a few things before heading off to Florida.

"Stick to the plan Sara. We were going to stay up at the cabin until Wednesday, so stay. Head to your folks from there."

She didn't reply, but her body language told him she'd finally given in. She slumped back in the seat and started tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel. He unclipped his seatbelt and opened the truck's door but didn't step out. Instead, he twisted around to look at Charlie, all strapped up in his little seat, fast asleep. He always fell asleep in the car. Jack wanted to hug him, to say goodbye, but he didn't want to wake him either. Better to leave him sleeping. He was sure that Charlie would immediately pick up on the nervous tension and start crying, and if that happened Jack wasn't sure he'd be able to walk away.

He turned back around to face Sara, who'd obviously been thinking the same thing because she didn't even suggest waking Charlie. Her eyes were examining his face intently like she was trying to memorise him. He leaned over, released her seatbelt, and pulled her towards him. She wasn't surprised by his forcefulness, she just kept staring into his eyes until she was too close to focus on him. They kissed passionately for several minutes. It was possessive and harsh, so completely different from the tenderness of the previous morning. They were oblivious to the passersby who looked away in embarrassment.

Jack eventually broke their contact. He turned and stepped out of the truck. She grabbed his hand and squeezed. He felt sick inside, and suddenly paralysed with the fear of leaving his family behind.

"I love you, Jack."

He squeezed back, not wanting to let go. "I love you too."

Jack took one more look at his son, his little head flopped to the side, brown hair tumbling over his face, and nearly broke. Nearly. Sara knew it because she released his hand then. It was time to go.

Jack tipped the peak of his baseball cap to her and tried to smile, "See ya ma'am." This was a little routine they played out - strangers parting ways after a dirty weekend. She saluted him back.

"Watch your six flyboy."

He closed the truck door and she pulled back out onto the road and merged with the traffic. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and watched her until she was completely out of sight before heading for the rental office. He had nothing with him except the clothes on his back, his wallet, and his house keys. He felt like a man on the run. Hell, maybe he would be by this evening. He had a long drive ahead of him and he was planning on breaking a few speed limits. He wondered just how much a US Air Force Colonel could get away with.

_**August 6th 1990, Colorado Springs**_

It was roughly 5am the following morning when he pulled into the driveway. He didn't even bother to check the clock though because he was nearly dead on his feet, being carried along by caffeine and adrenaline. If he stopped for one minute he knew he'd pass out. He'd try and sleep on the plane later.

When he pushed open the front door he found the envelope containing his official assignment letter lying on the floor. He scooped it up and stuffed it in the inner pocket of his jacket, then headed into the kitchen for a glass of water. He'd had quite a few cups of coffee about two hours ago to help him make the final push and they'd left him dehydrated and jittery. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head. He scrubbed his hands over his face and tried to re-focus on the task at hand. _Just get what you need and go Jack_. He took the stairs two at a time, grabbed his duffel from the back of the hallway cupboard, and quickly filled it with the usual necessities. In the bathroom, he stopped to splash cold water on his face and clean his teeth before grabbing his bag and heading back out to the car.

The airport was practically deserted. Buying a ticket and heading through check-in was a breeze. They even let him keep his duffel as hand luggage, which he managed to force into one of the overhead lockers. Finally, he sank down into one of the seats. He pulled his cap down a little and tried to make himself as comfortable as he could. Commercial planes were just not built for people as tall as he was. And he hated flying commercial.

He sighed audibly, bone tired and relieved that he could finally just, stop, even if it was only for a little while. The flight was only about four hours. One of the nearby stewards must have heard him, she turned and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

"Jack. It's Jack." He wasn't ready for people to start calling him 'sir' just yet. "I'm OK thanks. I just wanna sleep for a bit."

She flashed him a smile and leaned towards him, "Been on the go for a while, Jack?"

"Yeah... could you wake me when we're landing, please?" He didn't want to be rude, but he really didn't feel like talking and her tone was flirty, which annoyed him.

"Sure." She straightened up and headed back down the aisle. He noticed that she glanced back at him.

Jack rubbed at his eyes. He wasn't stupid, he knew that women found him attractive. He was tall and well built, with sallow skin, light brown hair, and dark eyes, but he never really saw himself that way and it always surprised him when women tried to flirt with him. He tipped his head back against the seat and crossed his arms, rediscovering his assignment letter which was still tucked away inside his jacket. He'd forgotten about it. He'd also forgotten to call David. _Damn_. Too late for that now, he thought. He was actually too tired to care. He'd be at the base soon enough and could speak to David in person. He settled down further in the seat and let his head fall to one side. The whole drive down from Minnesota he'd been thinking about Sara and Charlie. He wondered, and not for the first time, if he'd been upset when he'd finally realised his daddy was gone. Jack closed his eyes and willed himself to push the thought out of his head. Part of his exhaustion was definitely emotional fatigue. He felt drained, and in the empty space he could feel the guilt and anxiety taking root again. He needed to lock this away for the time being because he desperately needed some sleep, and he needed to have his head clear of distractions. He hadn't read the letter yet, but he knew he'd likely been given command of a special operations team. There'd be no room for error. Bad judgement would get people killed. Right now, he was more than a father and a husband, even though that was more than enough responsibility for one man. He shook himself mentally and concentrated on his breathing instead. Eventually, he started feeling his muscles relax and he slipped into unconsciousness before the plane had even taxied out to the runway.

_**August 6th 1990, Florida**_

Jack was woken by the same steward that had spoken to him earlier. She had crouched down next to him in the aisle and had gone as far as actually putting her hand on his knee, which had him instantly awake. He suddenly felt in urgent need of a shower. He brushed her off as politely as he could and retrieved his bag. He really hated flying commercial.

It wasn't far to Hulburt Field and Jack hailed a taxi right outside the airport. As soon as the cab driver heard the destination he started talking about Vietnam and was thrilled when he found out Jack had served there. It was one of those assignments that Jack would rather forget. He'd been so very young at the time. Young and stupid, he thought, and then laughed to himself because he definitely wasn't young anymore, but could certainly still be referred to as stupid. After all, here he was after more than twenty-four hours solid traveling, standing outside the grounds of Air Force Special Operations Command with nothing but a duffel bag and an assignment notice which he hadn't even opened yet. In fact, he was here purely because an old friend and superior had left a message on his answering machine. _Great Jack. Real smart_. _You're such an obliging little soldier boy O'Neill._

He felt conspicuous walking up to the security detail at the gate in his civvies. Clothes which he'd been in now for more than a day. He was rumpled and unshaven, with his baseball cap shoved on backwards to hide his messy hair. Oh, they were going to get a kick out of this. As he approached he could already tell they'd assumed he was civilian. They looked as though they were moving to cut him off. He thought wryly that he probably resembled some anti-military nutcase with a miniature armory slung over his shoulder. Jack contemplated just showing them his ID, but suddenly felt like having some fun. After all, he'd been the diligent and studious soldier, coming as soon as he was called. What was five minutes in the grand scheme of things? And if he could come out on top of this situation, all the better.

When he was close enough to the gate he stopped and waited for one of them to approach him.

"This is a restricted facility sir." The airman paused for effect. "Can we help you with something?"

"Yes, I'm sure you can." Jack drawled, cocking his head to the side.

"Sir, could you state your business please? Otherwise we'll have to ask you to move along." Still polite, but Jack could hear the irritation in his voice.

"I'd like to speak to one of your generals actually."

"I'm afraid that's not possible sir." The airman stated loudly. "We have a public affairs office which you are welcome to contact by phone or post. I'm sure they'd be happy to address any queries or issues you may have. Now, I'm going to need you to stand aside so I can let this vehicle through."

Jack glanced over at the car pulling up and then took a step towards the airman so that he was nearly right on top of him. The guy looked as though he was going to snap at any minute and Jack tried hard not to give himself away by grinning at him. The driver of the car was a young woman, blonde and blue eyed, she had her elbow stuck over the door and flashed the airman a smile, then gave Jack a quick once over, assessing the situation.

The airman snapped to attention, "Lieutenant Carter."

She returned the salute, "John, everything OK here?"

Before the airman could answer, Jack piped up, "No, actually, General Matthews is expecting me and I don't have a ride up to the main building. Colonel Jack O'Neill reporting for duty ma'am." He passed his ID over to the airman whose eyes widened in horror. Carter didn't even blink. He immediately guessed that she was from a military family, possibly with a high-ranking father. Rank obviously didn't intimidate her, although her manner was still respectful. She raised her hand to her forehead and gave him a casual salute. The airman quickly followed her example. His gesture was a little more emphatic.

"Uh, Sir. Sorry Sir. I'll get a hold of the General for you now."

"I can give you a ride up Colonel." The lieutenant tilted her head towards the empty seat to her right. Something in the tone of her voice told Jack she'd sussed out his little game.

"Excellent." Jack plucked his ID from the airman's hand and walked around to the passenger side. He dumped his duffel on the back seat and climbed in next to the young lieutenant. The second airman lifted the barrier and waved her through. "Thanks for the lift, Carter." He grinned openly now and noticed that she looked momentarily surprised. He wasn't sure whether she was reacting to his manner or the fact that he'd already picked up her name. He decided it was probably the latter.

"No problem, sir. " She smiled back at him. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Sure." He schooled his features into impassive neutrality.

"A little slick-sleeve hazing before breakfast, sir?"

She was almost reproachful, but Jack kept his features neutral. He paused for a beat so as not to seem defensive, and answered coolly. "Carter, have you seen me?" He indicated at his rumpled attire and waited for her to respond.

"Yes sir."

"I look like a nut-job."

"Yes sir." She smirked.

Jack narrowed his eyes at her but continued. "Someone was going to walk away from that situation embarrassed and it sure as hell wasn't going to be me."

She nodded in what appeared to be feigned understanding. Jack decided that he liked her attitude, ballsy but restrained. She also looked awfully young, and yet she was a lieutenant. The bar on the shoulder of her BDUs told him she was actually a First Lieutenant. It peaked his curiosity.

"What's your assignment Lieutenant?"

"I'm with the 16th, sir. I'll be co-piloting one of the Spectres."

Jack was genuinely impressed, but he didn't show it. He didn't like that he also reacted differently to female officers at times and he was sure this particular officer wouldn't appreciate any special acknowledgement. He berated himself silently. Any response he gave now would seem forced, so instead he reached back to pull his dog tags and sunglasses from a side pocket on his duffel.

She filled in the silence. "What's your assignment Colonel?"

Jack didn't answer. With his sunglasses balanced precariously on his thigh, he pulled his cap off and ran his hand through his hair, then slipped his tags over his head. It occurred to him that he still had no idea what he was doing here. Up at the cabin, he'd been incommunicado for days and he hadn't even thought to tune into the news on his way down from Minnesota. He preferred classical, and the classical stations never covered news items. In any case, his mind had been elsewhere. If there'd been some big, international, incident, he knew nothing about it.

He noted that she was still watching him out the corner of her eye. She suddenly seemed uncertain, the self-assuredness she'd possessed earlier giving way a little. Maybe she thought she'd crossed the line, said something she shouldn't have. Maybe it was something else entirely, but Jack still felt like an ass. He caught her eye and smiled at her, digging the letter out of his jacket pocket with his free hand. He held it up for her to see and flipped it over between his fingers.

"Unopened." He declared.

She looked surprised, but reassured. "You don't know, sir?"

"Haven't a clue." He stuffed the letter back inside his jacket.

She pulled the car over and stopped. They'd arrived up at the main building.

She nodded at him and smiled. "Good luck sir."

Jack put on his aviators and shifted his weight so he could push his cap into the back pocket of his jeans. She was still watching him. Her expression was inscrutable. Jack imagined she was wishing he'd hurry up and get the hell out of the car already. "You too Lieutenant." He jumped out and retrieved his bag from the back seat, then leaned back into the still open passenger door and added, "Thanks again for the lift."

"No problem Colonel."

He straightened up, slammed the door, and stepped away from the car. For some reason she didn't pull off, so he reached out and slapped the roof twice with the palm of his hand. She got the message, moving off nearly immediately. He turned to head into the building. _OK O'Neill, time to find out what this is all about._


	3. Heat

**3.**

**Heat**

Sam sat behind the wheel of her car, still looking over in the direction of the man who'd just closed her passenger door. He had been, arguably, the strangest superior officer she'd ever encountered. She felt thoroughly confused, and being confused wasn't something that happened to her very often. Two thumps on the roof jarred her out of her momentary daze. She put the car into first, checked her mirror, and pulled off, casting one more glance back at him. He was striding into the building.

She made her way back the way she'd come and took the road that led down to personnel housing. Just like John, she'd also at first assumed that he was civilian. His dress, his manner, even his body language, nothing indicated that he was military. A rainbow, maybe, but he wasn't young enough to be a new recruit, and anyway, they always arrived in groups. It was only when he'd presented John with his ID that she'd realised it had all been an act. His demeanor had changed immediately. He'd been playing games. This man was trained to deceive, she thought. He'd definitely been black ops at some stage. Sam had never met anyone who she suspected to be black ops. It was, of course, a massive assumption on her part, but she felt sure of it. It was telling that he was a Colonel and he couldn't have been more than forty. She chided herself as she realised she was a little in awe of him. Samantha Carter, daughter of General Jacob Carter, did not get over-awed by fellow officers. She supposed that there was a first time for everything though. He'd certainly caught them all off-guard.

And then he had been so casual as to reveal that he had no idea why he was even on base, despite the fact that it was obvious by his day old stubble and tired clothing that he'd traveled long enough to get here. It also seemed as though he was getting his orders directly from General Matthews. No ordinary Colonel then, or perhaps the General was a personal friend. All of it added up in Sam's head, but it was an intriguing puzzle that she didn't have all the pieces to. She'd have to quiz some of her crew, see if they'd ever heard of him. _Colonel Jack O'Neill_. It hadn't escaped her notice that he was quite handsome, in a rugged, disheveled, kind of way. On second thought, if anyone did know him they'd probably take her interest the wrong way. She was suddenly dismayed at her current introspection. She'd just given the man a lift and now she was dissecting the entire encounter in some stupefying thought experiment. _You think too much, Carter._

She parked the car in front of the women's dorm and sat for a minute. The sun was beating down even though it was still morning. The temperature rose a couple of degrees as soon as she turned the key and killed the engine. The air-con had been the only thing keeping the car bearable. She leaned forward and squinted up at the sky through the windshield. There wasn't a cloud to be seen. It was clear and blue. Sam had never seen so many planes in the air at once. No doubt several squadrons were out practicing. Her crew was going to be heading out later that evening for night manoeuvres. Most of their operations were likely to take place under cover of darkness, backing up ground forces in close air support and bomb strikes. She hated to admit to herself that she was nervous. She'd never seen real combat before. After all, she wasn't long out of the Academy. She steeled herself against her growing feeling of unease. She knew she was capable, and more importantly, kept a cool head under pressure. It's why she was here. It's why she'd been given the position of co-pilot. It's why she was one of the only women assigned to the 16th. She reminded herself that she wouldn't be here if her commanding officer wasn't confident in her abilities. This was a big deal though. Just four days ago, August 2nd, Iraq had sent troops into Kuwait. Now nearly every military branch in the country was preparing to go to war. Squadrons would start shipping out as early as tomorrow, headed for Saudi Arabia. They were calling it Operation DESERT SHIELD.

She sucked in a deep breath. Then another. Sam closed her eyes, feeling the heat rising, the light trickle of sweat down her spine. She imagined herself in the desert. Nothing but baking sand and shimmering heatwaves. It seemed empty and desolate, but she felt almost serene. It didn't really make any sense to her, but at least she felt more focused, like she'd re-centred herself. She took one last deep breath and opened her eyes. She vaguely registered that the car smelled of her earlier passenger, musky but not sour. _Stop it Sam._ She got out of the car then and headed for her quarters. She was absolutely dying for a shower.

When she entered her room she was greeted by her roommate. Liz was sprawled across the bunk opposite Sam's. There wasn't any air-con in the dorm and she had opened every window in the room. She was also stripped down to her vest and underwear. She was reading what looked like a trashy romance novel. Sam constantly despaired at Liz's choice of reading material.

"You feeling a little hot under the collar there?" Sam teased.

Liz rolled her eyes. "Freakin' hilarious. You better watch yourself or you'll end up just like those airhead flyboys."

"Those the same 'airhead flyboys' who you love looking after so much?"

"Keep 'em flying!" Liz chanted, then made a sweeping motion with her book like it was an airplane. Sam grinned at her. Liz was with one of the medical support squadrons and that was their motto.

"Actually, you have the right idea there."

"What, this?" Liz waved her book in the air, looking confused.

"No, stripping off." Sam paused to unbutton her BDU jacket. "It's really hot out there. I'm sweating like a beast."

"I told you not to go for a drive. You do look a bit flushed." She quirked an eyebrow at Sam.

Sam ducked her head and sat down to untie her shoe-laces. She felt Liz's eyes on her and didn't know what to say. Maybe it was simply the heat, but she couldn't deny that she'd just spent the last fifteen minutes or so thinking about the man she'd dropped off, and then wondering if she had what it took to fight in this coming war. She felt weighted down, like she'd been transported to a planet where the force of gravity was much stronger.

"Sam?"

"I'm going for a shower." She ignored Liz and grabbed her towel and toiletries.

"Sam?" Liz's voice had gone down an octave.

"I won't be long." She slipped out the door before Liz could react and headed down the hall to the showers.

She was already in the shower when she heard someone come into the room.

"Sam?"

Sam grimaced._Oh for crying out loud._ "What?!"

"Wanna head up to the commissary for lunch when you're done?" Liz's voice was quiet and undemanding.

Sam could make out her friend's silhouette through the shower curtain and she felt awful for snapping at her. She answered more calmly. "Sure. I'll be out in ten."

Liz seemed satisfied with that and Sam heard her pad quietly out of the room.

Her attention returned to her shower and she adjusted the taps so that the water ran cold. It was starting to get icy but it felt so good after the stifling heat of the car. She stood still, letting it course over her skin. Where it hit her chest her breath caught. She had ten minutes and she intended to spend most of it just like this.

* * *

Sam was feeling better after the shower. Cooler, both mentally and physically. Liz hadn't had to wait long for her to finish showering and throw on some clothes. They both opted for just t-shirts with their BDU trousers and decided to walk across to the main building. It was hot outside, but it would be hotter still in the car. It took them twenty minutes. Sam was glad of the fresh air and exercise, despite the scorching sun.

She could tell that Liz was biding her time. She hadn't said anything while Sam was dressing, and hadn't pressed her on their walk over either, but her eyes danced with excitement. Sam thought sardonically that here they were about to ship out to war, and this was still the sort of thing that occupied people's minds - the seemingly mundane and frivolous goings-on of everyday life. Sam sighed. She was feeling much older than her years. She supposed that she always had, ever since her mother had died anyway. Ironically, at twenty-two Sam was younger than Liz.

Maybe Liz just wanted a distraction. Sam couldn't fault her for that. She reminded herself that a lot of young women their age were completely footloose. Fresh out of college, no responsibilities, focused on nothing but shopping and dating and boyfriends. Liz wasn't immature, she was just interested in people. Sam was interested in the stars.

Liz wanted to head to the biggest commissary. She loved to people-watch, and the larger the crowd, the better. Sam, on the other hand, wanted to head to one of the smaller ones. Unusually, Liz deferred to Sam. It was an obvious indication of just how badly Liz wanted find out about her morning. If Sam was going to tell her roommate anything she was not going to shout it over the din of the main commissary at peak hours, and Liz knew it. They filled their trays and headed for one of the tables at the far end of the room.

"I don't know how you eat that stuff, it's full of dye. We'll probably end up stitching you up at some stage and your insides will be all blue." Liz pointed her fork at the big bowl of blue jello on Sam's tray.

"I fully intend for you never to see my insides, Liz, so don't worry about it."

Liz paused and started absently tapping with the fork. "So...?"

_Here it comes. _"You couldn't even wait for me to get to dessert, could you?"

"Hey! I've been waiting for more than half-an-hour already. I've shown remarkable restraint." She nodded her head for emphasis. "So spill."

"Nothing happened." Sam answered flatly.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying."

"So what was with the blushing and the avoidance?"

"I'm a social retard. It's part of my geeky Astrophysicist heritage."

"It's good that you acknowledge these things about yourself. It means there's still hope for you."

The seriousness of Liz's tone made Sam snort with laughter, but Liz didn't react. She just stared intently at Sam. She was waiting for a reply. Sam stopped eating and started toying with the carrot sticks on her plate. She desperately wanted to avoid a gossip session about a fellow officer, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. Maybe Liz knew of him or knew someone who did. Liz knew practically everyone.

"OK."

Liz's eyebrows went up but she stayed silent.

"I had an 'encounter' this morning." Sam continued. "But it's not as interesting as it sounds."

"I'll be the judge of that. Go on..." She prompted.

Sam hesitated. This really wasn't like her, but what harm could it do? So she filled Liz in on what had happened that morning. As she spoke she wondered if she sounded as utterly pathetic as she felt. Juvenile, was the word that popped into her head. But Liz appeared to be listening carefully.

"So what was his name?" She asked when Sam finished.

"Jack O'Neill."

The expression on Liz's face made it look like she was actually rolling the name around in her head. Sam found it endearing.

"I don't think I've heard of him, but if he's a Colonel, then Conor might know something." She caught Sam's eye. "But that's not what had you all flushed." It was more a statement than a question.

Sam chose her words carefully. "He _interested _me."

The smile Liz responded with could've competed with the Cheshire Cat's. Sam immediately wished she hadn't said anything. She closed her eyes and started rubbing her temples. But a moment later she felt a hand on her arm. Liz's voice was soft and kind, "Sam, it's OK to just let yourself be human on the odd occasion. We all have thoughts and feelings that we sometimes don't understand. It's not something you can control. And I know that some of us are shipping out tomorrow and this conversation seems trivial, but sometimes our lives _are _trivial."

This was unexpected. She'd been prepared for mockery, not this gentle understanding of what she often thought of as her borderline personality disorder - her desire to always be in control. If not of the situation, then certainly of herself. Liz was more perceptive than Sam gave her credit for. Sam covered her friend's hand with her own and squeezed. After a beat, Liz withdrew her hand and Sam looked back up at her.

_Holy hannah! _

The Colonel was right there, standing near Liz. He had a tray in his hands and Sam wondered if he'd even seen her, but no, he was looking right at her. How much of the conversation had he heard? Had he just been walking by? He was clean shaven now, hair wet and spiked up in all directions. She tried to hide her surprise, and did the only thing she could think of. She saluted him.

He nodded his head and smiled. It wasn't flirty, just casual and friendly. "Take it easy on that stuff, Carter, you'll turn into a smurf."

She followed his gaze to the bowl of jello still sitting at her elbow. "Yes sir. Did you find out what your assignment is?"

"It's pretty much what I expected." He didn't elaborate any further. "See ya 'round Lieutenant." He moved off towards an empty table a bit further down from them.

Sam refused to let herself watch him go, but she could see Liz was doing the exact opposite. Her eyes were like saucers. She shook her head minutely, hoping Liz would notice and stop staring.

Her roommate finally pulled her eyes away from the Colonel's departing figure and focused back on her. Sam couldn't read her expression.

Liz leaned forward and whispered, "I do know one thing about him."

Sam raised her eyebrows and waited for her to continue.

"He's married."

"How do you know?" she breathed, and immediately hated herself for even asking.

Liz rubbed her thumb against the underside of her ring-finger. The movement was barely perceptible. Trust Liz to see that, Sam thought. As she had suspected, Liz had completely misinterpreted her interest in this man.

She scowled at her. "It's not like that."

"I know. I was just saying. Now hurry up and finish your dessert so we can get out of here."

As much as she'd been looking forward to it, Sam suddenly wasn't in the mood for jello.

* * *

_**A/N: Since I know very little about the USAF, I have done research to give this story some authenticity. You can find some of the slang references by searching for Air Force slang. All other information I have acquired from publicly available documentation on the USAF website.**_

_******Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**_


	4. Holding Pattern

**4.**

**Holding Pattern**

_**August 7th, 1990, Florida**_

Zero-dark-thirty. That's what they call the half hour following midnight. Sam always thought it was an odd turn of phrase since it was completely dependent on location and season. She was quite sure that if someone tried to use that term on an excursion in the Antarctic in the height of summer that she would laugh at them, commanding officer or not. At the moment though, the term seemed apt. It was pretty dark out, even with a nearly full moon bathing the landscape. There just wasn't a whole lot of landscape to see since their current heading had taken them out over water near the Florida base. She studied her instruments carefully and made a few minor adjustments to their course and altitude. She could just make out the far-off twinkle of city lights on her far right as she circled back around towards land.

The drone of the four engines was persistent. She felt it all the way through her body. Her crew in back were probably feeling it even more. It sometimes made it hard to focus, so to keep herself alert she started thinking about the physics that were keeping the fifty-plus ton hunk of metal aeroplane from dropping out of the sky. It was mind-boggling even if you did understand the maths down to the smallest fractions.

She adjusted her heading again and glanced across at her commanding officer. She was trying to gauge her performance by watching for his reactions but he wasn't giving anything away. She still couldn't believe she was doing this. An hour earlier as they all reported for manoeuvres, Captain Keenan had informed her that she was going to take command on this flight. She'd been slightly bleary eyed from trying to get a few hours sleep beforehand, but her jaw had nearly hit the floor as the adrenaline jolted her into instant alertness. She had looked around to see her expression mirrored in the faces of her unit. Peters and Hall weren't just surprised though, they'd actually bulked. Sam didn't hold it against them. She knew them and they were good guys, genuinely respectful and kind. Male hierarchy was so ingrained for some of them that their responses were probably just instinctive.

She'd immediately wanted to query her CO's decision, but decided against it. He was incredibly astute and something told her he'd picked up on the anxiety she'd been radiating for the last few days. Putting her in this position meant that if she screwed up, she'd be all the more determined to get it right the next time. And if she succeeded, she'd be reassured and confident when her mettle was finally tested in real combat. It was a win-win. He knew his unit, that much was certain.

"ETA for target five minutes." She called into her mike. No one responded, but she could hear the gunners readying the rounds for the 40mm. Miller made a few changes to their waypoints and Sam adjusted accordingly. They were now back over land and the surroundings weren't so monotonous and disorientating. She was pretty sure she'd spotted their target, but needed to be sure.

"Harris, have you got visual on the infrared?"

"Affirmative Lieutenant." The co-ordinates popped up then on her heads-up-display to the left.

They were closer than she'd previously thought. "Hold on guys, this turn is gonna be tight."

She banked to the right, and then immediately started coming back around to the left into a pylon turn in orbit above the target. It wasn't as smooth as she would've liked, the AC-130 gunship was bulky and slow, but the move was accurate. They were in position at least.

"Peters, those guns ready?" She barked

"Yes ma'am!"

"Baker?" She glanced back over her shoulder out of habit, but she knew she wouldn't be able to see him.

"Good to go." He was obviously happy with the targeting.

This was it. One more check on the hud told her the sensors were locked on. She pressed the trigger to fire. For a split-second she was afraid they'd gotten it wrong and the computer would cancel the command, but the next thing she saw a rain of gunfire disappearing into the darkness to her left. The percussive pop of the ammunition was deafening. Then something down below lit up in a burst of flame. The gunfire ceased.

"Harris, can you see if that was a direct hit?" She hadn't meant to sound so surprised but she'd expected to have to re-aim the guns at least once more.

"Target's destroyed Lieutenant. We were dead on!" Harris sounded equally surprised. Hall and Peters whooped.

"Well done team." Captain Keenan spoke for the first time since they'd taken off. Sam caught a glint of white in the moonlight as he turned towards her. He was smiling broadly. "Take her home Lieutenant."

Sam brought her back around again and headed for the base. After a few minutes she realised that what she thought had been light turbulence was actually her. All the uncertainty she'd been feeling was suddenly dissipating through every muscle in her body. She was shaking.

She chastised herself for getting so worked up, but at the same time she felt exhilarated. She'd just taken point in a Spectre. A lot of airmen would give their eye-teeth to even man this plane, and here she was piloting it. She felt a whoop of her own rising in her throat but she pushed it back down. Instead she ducked her head and grinned, hoping the captain wouldn't see. She never liked showing her emotions to her commanding officers.

He leaned over and clapped her on the shoulder. "Nice flying Carter."

She tipped her head at him in reply. The gesture was calm and controlled, exactly the way she wanted it to be. It was what she thought they always expected of her. Inwardly, Sam was so elated that she was sure she could float on back to base with or without the plane. She knew she'd be ready when they finally received their orders.

* * *

Two days later, Liz's unit was given their assignment and flown out. Sam didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to her friend. Out on manoeuvres again, she'd returned to a half-empty room and a note on her pillow which had been carefully folded into a paper airplane.

Sam slumped onto the bed and gingerly lifted the plane from it's resting place. She contemplated sending it on a test flight, but decided that she didn't feel like getting up again to fetch it. She opened it and tried to smooth the creases against her knee.

_Hey BIB!_

_You know the drill. They call, we run. I guess they want us around in case one of those dumbass stick-jockeys bruises his ego._

_You know the rest:_

__ _ _ _ (fill in the blanks as you see fit)_

_Lizzy_

_P.S. I hope you crash and burn just so I get to see your sorry mug sooner rather than later._

Sam laughed out loud despite the sudden feeling of loss that welled up in her. She was going to miss Liz. Tears prickled behind her eyes and she blinked rapidly to force them back. Folding the note up again, she tucked it into the rear pocket of her BDUs for safe keeping. She wanted to have it with her for a little while at least until she could find a more permanent home for it.

With a sigh, she pushed herself off of the bed and headed back out of the dorm. There was nothing keeping her there at that moment and she really wanted to get out and _do _something. The guys had mentioned they were going to head over to the rec room to play pool, but she knew they hated playing pool with her. She always won, even when they tried to ply her with alcohol. Recreation just wasn't her thing anyway because she always ended up breaking everything down into their basic principles and solving them like equations.

What she needed was to _fix _something. The little scientist in her had taken a backseat with all the flying and was threatening to quantum tunnel her way out. She wanted a puzzle to solve, a challenge that she could figure out by herself. Something that she didn't need a whole crew of people to accomplish. If she was honest, she also wanted a proper distraction. Something to take her mind off of losing Liz's company and a project to fill up the time until her unit was shipped out.

Hesitating outside her car, she wondered if she should at least put in an appearance at the rec room before making her way over the maintenance hangars. She didn't think it was a good idea to alienate herself from her team. _One beer, one game._ She shoved her keys back in her pocket and started walking.

* * *

_**A/N: Since I know very little about the USAF, I have done research to give this story some authenticity. You can find some of the slang references by searching for Air Force slang. All other information I have acquired from publicly available documentation on the USAF website.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**_


	5. The Philosopher King

**5.**

**The Philosopher King**

"_A true pilot must of necessity pay attention to the seasons, the heavens, the stars, the winds, and everything proper to the craft if he is really to rule a ship." - Plato_

_**August 12th 1990, Florida**_

Jack lay staring at the ceiling. The room was nearly completely dark, and aside from the soft snoring floating over from the airman a few bunks down and the occasional creak of mattress springs, it was peaceful. He couldn't sleep and had lost track of time. He thought it was probably around 3am, but it could've be any time at all. There wasn't a window near enough for him to see how high the moon was. He rubbed his hands over his face for what felt like the hundredth time and shifted onto his side. It was a minute or so before he'd made himself comfortable again.

It did not escape him how ludicrous it was that he was plagued with insomnia. In his own estimation he was just not a smart enough man. But he was feeling the weight of his responsibilities, as he always did the night before he was due to ship out, and the tension down in his gut was stopping him from relaxing. He knew at some point before dawn exhaustion would finally win out. It was the same every time.

If he'd been in his officer's quarters he'd be alone and could've gotten up to read instead of lying in the dark as he was now, but he preferred to bunk in with his men. It was a rule for him. Sometimes the only bit of intelligence he had going into a mission was knowing what his men were capable of, their strengths and their weaknesses. It was the sort of thing he could learn only by spending time with them. He also had the small problem of rubbing most other officers up the wrong way. That thought at least gave him a little pleasure, and he smiled to himself.

Still, he was a commanding officer and did have to draw lines, like not spending too much off-duty time with his unit, and sharing their living quarters, but not their shower or chow times. It was a fine line to walk but he could see the impact it had. They respected him, but also trusted him. He knew they'd follow him to hell and back. Hopefully with the emphasis on 'back', he thought ruefully.

His mind wandered. He'd tried his best to push thoughts of Sara and Charlie out of his head but they were hovering at the boundary, pulling at his consciousness. Like whispers that seem to have no source or direction but that draw your attention all the same. The more he tried to ignore them, the more compelled he was to listen. It was worse than usual tonight. He needed air.

Silently, Jack threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bunk and lowered himself to the floor. Not wanting to disturb anyone, he grabbed what he needed and slipped out of the room. He hoped no one else was up and about since an officer pulling on his clothes in a hallway in the small hours of the morning would be a very strange sight indeed, and he really didn't need an audience. The hall was deserted but the brightness of the fluorescent strip lighting bored painfully into his eyes. Blinking, he decided that his boots could wait until he was outside.

As he sat on the steps tying his laces he became aware of a low rumbling. It was definitely an engine and was punctuated every few seconds with a brief lull and then a change in tone. _Motorcycle_. Someone was out riding a motorcycle, probably on one of the inactive airstrips, he thought. Curious, he stood up and began walking in the direction of the sound. The morning was still, with just a hint of a breeze that was wonderfully crisp in comparison to the heat of the day and he was glad right then to be out of the barracks and moving, instead of lying on his bunk burning holes into the ceiling with his eyes.

It seemed like a long time before he saw the headlight of the bike, but there still wasn't a hint of dawn on the horizon. He was vaguely aware that he was now out by the maintenance hangars. The shape of the building loomed in front of him, eerily lit by a few poorly placed flood lights. He walked around to the front which faced out onto a big strip of asphalt. The doors were pushed across and he could see that someone had set up a small work area, favouring a few work lamps instead of using the overhead lights. There were tools strewn everywhere in a way that could only be described as frenzied. He could hear the bike getting louder as it headed back in his direction. He turned towards it just as the beam from the headlight swept over him and he had to lift his hand to shield his eyes. The bike puttered to a stop a few feet from where he was standing and the rider killed the engine.

"I'm really sorry, I had no idea anyone else would be up at this hour."

The rider's tone was genuinely apologetic, but it was the fact that the voice was clearly female that rendered Jack momentarily speechless. There wasn't enough light for him to make her out, but the voice seemed familiar.

"Um, to be honest, I haven't a clue what 'this hour' is." He ran his hand through his hair absently. He hadn't even bothered to grab his watch when he'd left the barracks.

He heard, more than saw, her dismount the bike and move towards him. A flash of golden hair and blue eyes and he immediately recognised her.

"Lieutenant!" His voice came out a bit more startled than he would've liked, but he thought the expression on her face must have mirrored his own.

"Colonel?" She peered at him with a mixture of horror and curiosity. "Ah, pardon me for saying, but you're a long way from the officers' quarters sir."

Jack wasn't sure if she was asking a question or just making a statement, but he was still trying to piece everything together in his weary mind and wasn't ready to respond to either just yet. He let his gaze wander from her, to the work area, to the bike, and then back to her. She definitely looked like she was expecting some kind of response or explanation. She'd traded her earlier look of surprise for something bordering on stern. Oh, she was from a military family alright. He wished she'd go back to looking surprised.

"I never stay in the officers' quarters." He hadn't meant to say it like he did. The words practically fell out of his mouth, too soft and too casual, and he saw her eyes widen again. OK, not exactly intentional on his part, but he'd take it. He didn't know if it was because he was getting too old for sleepless nights, his guilt over Sara, or the sheer strangeness of the situation, but he felt decidedly unbalanced. It also dawned on him that being here was revealing something about himself that he couldn't laugh off or deflect with a joke. He'd unconsciously sought out the only other person on base who appeared to be awake, and there were only so many ways to interpret that. _D'oh._

"I'm sorry if I woke you sir." She'd gone back to looking cool and professional, her tone matter-of-fact. She was almost standing at attention. Clever, he thought, as he realised that she was giving him an out. Now he could reprimand her and simply walk away. That's probably what she was expecting. But he was far too tired to play the part of the hacked-off Colonel come to chew out a junior officer for the improper use of the facilities. Besides, he had to admit that he was too damn intrigued.

"You didn't wake me, Carter." He finally managed, forcing nonchalance into his voice.

"Oh." The composed facade faltered for a second and it was her turn to look uncomfortable. It wasn't the answer she'd been anticipating. It occurred to Jack that it might be better for both of them if he just started yelling. Was it too late to take that out?

Instead, he voiced the question that had popped into his head the minute he'd recognised her.

"You're a pilot _and _a mechanic?" He gestured at the setup inside the hangar entrance.

"Astrophysicist, sir."

_Pilot. Astrophysicist. Of course._ "Ah. You want to fly in space."

"That would be my first choice." She shrugged and looked away. The move was almost angry. It spoke of disappointment. For the first time he noticed that she had grease smudged across her cheek and forehead. Her hands and forearms were absolutely covered with it. He'd never seen anything like it. A beautiful woman moonlighting as a grease monkey. He had to stop himself from grinning at his internal joke.

"Um, what you got there?" He nodded towards the bike.

Her eyes lit up. "It's a 1953 Indian Chief sir." She spun on her heal and walked back out into the shadows towards the motorcycle. He found himself following.

She circled around to the other side of the bike and rested her hand on the tank. All he could make out was the glint of chrome here and there, but he knew what an Indian Chief was so he tried to imagine the rest. He ran his hand over it appreciatively. The paintwork was smooth under his fingers, the seat leather still soft and supple.

"Sweet."

"One of the techs stationed here permanently had it stored in back. He restored it but couldn't get it running smoothly. I guessed it might have something to do with the mix, there was bluing on the down-pipes..."

"Woah, woah." He raised his hands to stop her barreling on with her explanation. Based on what he'd already seen, he was glad he couldn't make out the expression on her face. "I don't need the gory details, Carter. She sounded pretty good to me on the walk over here."

"Yeah, I think I've got the initial problem sorted out." If she was annoyed, she wasn't showing it. "There's just one problem."

"What's that?" At this instant, he couldn't imagine a single thing that this woman couldn't figure out.

"Well, I've never ridden a motorcycle before today." It was like she'd admitted some terrible weakness, her voice was so grave. Jack almost laughed, but thought better of it. "I mean, theoretically, I know what to do and I've been riding her around for a while, but I feel like I'm missing something fundamental." Even in the dark he saw her shoulders fall forward in exasperation.

"Fun"

"Sorry sir?"

"You gotta put the _fun _in _fun_damental Carter."

She laughed. It suited her. And _he _couldn't believe he'd just gotten away with that comment. Sara would've rolled her eyes and walloped him.

"You're probably right sir." He noticed that she was smiling now. It was broad and brilliant, bright enough even in the shadow of the hangar.

"You know what makes the difference between a good pilot and a great one, Lieutenant?"

"Good instincts, and knowing your craft's limits." She replied as if by rote.

"Those things are important, don't get me wrong, but you do have to enjoy what you do. I'm not talking about entertainment, I'm talking about living, being in the moment. It's what motivates you, keeps you alive. Do you understand Lieutenant?"

"I think so sir."

It struck him how odd this was, standing in the dark having a conversation with a woman he barely knew. It made him feel unbalanced all over again. What was it about this hour of the morning that turned things on their head, like you were experiencing the world in reverse? He became acutely aware of the silence stretching between them.

"Well, um, words of wisdom aside, I could take her around and see how she handles." He offered. "I've ridden a few motorbikes in my day."

"I'd appreciate a few pointers sir."

"Sure. Why not?" He said wryly. He grinned at her and then realised that with the lights behind him, he was probably just a big, black silhouette to her anyway.

Without a word, she stepped away and back towards the hangar. He swung his leg over the bike, swept back the stand, popped her into neutral, and then felt for the kick starter. He hadn't done this in a while, he'd sold his own Harley after Charlie was born. It took him three tries to start her, but she thundered to life with a guttural thumping. He tapped her down into first and pulled off. Everything about the bike was a little stiff, but that was understandable considering it hadn't been ridden in a while. He opened her up and she was responsive enough. As he rode out to the end of the airstrip, he concentrated on the weight and balance of the bars, the feel on the throttle, and enjoyed the cool air rushing past, whipping his shirt nearly right up his back. He turned as tightly as he dared when he saw that he was running out of asphalt, and pushed her to the limit all the way back to the hangar.

Carter was standing just inside the building's entrance and he pulled up next to her.

"She's a little heavy, but well balanced. Throttle response is a bit sluggish, but I'm sure you can fix that."

She was nodding, processing what he was saying. Standing near the work lamps, Jack was reminded of how young she was. Her mannerisms and speech belied her age. It had been easy to forget when they'd been standing outside in the dark. She had the assuredness of someone who knew exactly how they were supposed to behave because they'd lived their life by a very clear set of rules and principles. He thought about what she'd said earlier. She _was _missing something fundamental. No wonder she didn't understand the simple joy of cruising on an old classic like the Indian. It wasn't a mission, or a task, something to accomplish, or even excel at. It just was. He suddenly felt pained. It pressed into his chest. This young woman was going off to war and she hadn't experienced anything of life, never just existed in the absence of purpose. He was willing to bet she'd never even gone fishing. He thought about Charlie.

"You OK sir?" She peered at him again with that motherly look of hers. It was the last straw.

"Hop on Carter."

"Sir?"

"Before I change my mind." He moved forward and tipped his head towards the pillion seat. "I can make it an order if you'd like? I'm shipping out in a few hours so I don't even care if you write me up." He fixed her with his best glare.

She hesitated for a moment, but he was gambling a soldier like her would obey instinctively. And she didn't disappoint. It was only when he realised there was no grab-rail and felt her hands around his waist that he realised this probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. Screw it though. They were just going to have a little innocent fun. He revved, pulled the bike around in a 180 and took off up the strip. She didn't make a sound, but tightened her grip reflexively. Eventually, he took them out onto the empty roads on base. He tried to stay away from the main buildings, hoping like hell no one would see them. It was half the fun.

He could tell she was at least getting the techniques. She leaned with him into corners, anticipated when he would brake and accelerate. He wasn't sure she was actually enjoying herself though. Not until he'd worked up the courage to buzz the officers' quarters. Then, she had whooped.


	6. Out of the Foxhole

**6.**

**Out of the Foxhole**

_**February 1991, somewhere over the Iraq border on SCUD Boulevard**_

It was never a good idea to move during daylight. The terrain in this area was really open and they'd been dug into their foxhole for most of the day, waiting for cover of darkness before moving onto the next section of the grid in the search for possible SCUD locations. It was only two hours until sundown.

Jack had felt the low vibration through the shifting earth long before he heard it. He fired a worried look in Cromwell's direction. The man responded with a small nod, the muscles in his jaw tensing. They were hearing track vehicles, possibly tanks, and they were getting closer to their hiding position.

"What is that sir?" Kawalsky hissed.

Jack didn't answer straight away. He was doing a mental inventory of their current ammunition and weapons.

"Morgan." He called to the young marine who had wedged himself into the far corner. "You got any M72s?"

"Yes sir." Morgan nodded and held up three fingers.

They'd encountered the small group of marines two days ago, also running reconnaissance in the area. For some reason, they'd deferred to him for command and had decided to tag along with his special ops team. He supposed that a Colonel was a Colonel, no matter which branch of the military you worked for. He wasn't complaining. They had the anti-tank missiles after all.

Jack turned back to Kawalsky. "You're hearing tanks. Tanks or people carriers." The young captain's face paled.

"Listen up." Jack raised his voice to get the groups' attention. Cromwell crouched beside him. "We're going to have to move from our current position."

He could hear the murmuring start, the fear registering on the faces of some of the younger men.

"Look, we could hold our position and hope whatever's heading in our direction decides to go else where, but if it doesn't, we are FUBAR." He paused to let his words sink in. "We don't have the fire power to defend against tanks."

"What's the plan?" Cromwell asked.

"We have to surprise them," Jack said. "Hit them hard and fast and then we move, standard fire and manoeuvre. We've seen how disorganised these guys can be. It'll be messy but we can pull it off if everyone plays their part."

He scanned their faces again. He didn't know the marines very well but he'd been watching them closely. They were capable soldiers, very professional and willing. They were just a little more inexperienced than he'd have liked. It might have been why they'd attached themselves to his team in the first place.

"Kawalsky, let me see that map."

Jack examined it carefully. It looked like there was rough ground about a click south-east of them. Desert gulches and wadis. If they could make it there he knew the heavy vehicles couldn't follow them in. They'd have a better chance of defending themselves if the Iraqis followed them.

He pointed it out to Cromwell who nodded in agreement and together the two men quickly set about organising everyone into their positions, making sure everyone was clear about what they were doing and where they were going. Three small groups, each with an M72. The tanks were only about five minutes away now.

Jack took point with one of the M72s, his M16 slung over his shoulder for backup. His adrenaline sky-rocketed, his pulse pounding in his ears.

"Can you see them yet?" he called over to Kawalsky. Kawalsky did another quick check, not wanting to risk giving away their position.

"They're coming over the rise now sir."

"Ten count," he addressed his group, and then started counting down.

Things seemed to slow down as he focused his breathing and prepared to fire. The weapon was heavy on his shoulder. He stood, took aim, and fired, his group already moving out from behind him to take up cover fire for the next group. The shot was good. One down, he thought, dropping the launcher and moving out of the foxhole to join them. They stayed low and only moved when the next group was in position.

It was chaotic, but each team hit their mark and managed to stay cohesive. A mile in open ground was still a long way to go and Jack knew they weren't in the clear just yet. There was still one tank and one APC and they had no way to disable them. He was counting on the Iraqis to pull back and regroup. A minute later, that's exactly what they did, heading back over the rise in the direction they'd come from.

"Move!" he yelled.

Cromwell had seen it too and was already pushing his guys into a run towards the next rise. Once they were over they didn't bother holding formation. Jack brought up the rear along with one of the marines, Hall, who was an expert marksman. He was relieved that they weren't being pursued just yet, but he had no doubt that the Iraqis knew exactly where they were heading.

* * *

"Sir, we have a communication from Ar'ar. There are friendlies pinned down about a hundred clicks north-west of our current position. They want to know if we have enough fuel and munitions to assist."

Sam kept her eyes glued to her display while listening carefully to the conversation between her CO and Harris. They were currently on their way back from their seventh mission. They'd had one practically every day and they'd started to bleed into each other. She felt reasonably alert but knew that fatigue was setting in. All of them were tired, and an exhausted crew might end up doing more harm than good. She wondered if Captain Keenan was thinking the same thing and stole a sidelong glance at him. He looked uncertain. It wasn't something she was used to seeing.

"What's their situation Harris?" he said.

"Not good sir. Looks like they've been taking fire for at least twelve hours. We're the only air support in the area."

Harris' voice sounded grim. Sam did the math. Tired or not, if they didn't assist, those men where going to be overwhelmed and either captured or killed before sunrise. She caught the Captain looking at her.

"Carter, what do you think?"

She was always surprised when he did this. Surprised, and grateful that he respected her enough to ask for her opinion. Many men would not.

"I think we don't really have a choice, sir."

"Agreed," he said.

"We've got enough fuel to keep her flying for another six or seven hours sir." Sam said, tapping at the fuel gage. "We can make it to their position and back to Ar'ar in less than four."

"OK Carter. Harris, munition count please, and then get back on the radio and let them know we're good to go."

Sam heard Harris turn and shout something to Thompson before disappearing into the bowels of the massive plane. She felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked over at her CO and gave him a half smile.

"How you holding up there Lieutenant?."

"I don't mind admitting that I would really love some shut-eye sir," she said. "But at the moment I'm more concerned about our guys on the ground."

"Me too, Carter," he said, flashing her a smile. "Four hours and everyone gets some much deserved R&R."

"Yes sir!"

She was relieved at the thought they were nearly home but she didn't want to get ahead of herself. They had one more mission to fly.

* * *

Jack desperately wanted to stretch out his legs. His knees were twinging from crouching for more hours than he wanted to acknowledge. He'd lost track somewhere around the eight hour mark and wondered if he'd ever be able to stand up straight again. He shifted some of his weight onto his side as he leaned into some rock at the base of the the desert gulch. They'd been damn lucky. They were all present and accounted for and the only injuries they'd had were a few burns from their own weapons. Jones was making the rounds with his med kit.

Their challenge now was staying alert and being smart with their ammunition. They'd spent a lot of it moving from the foxhole and, as Jack had suspected, they'd been followed. For the past few hours he'd been hearing the Iraqis moving in around them. He knew they were getting into position to attack at day break. It was too dark for him to pick out targets. He wished he could see what was going on out there but he'd given the only night vision goggles they had to Hall and Kawalsky who he'd carefully positioned as sniper and spotter under a natural overhang at a slightly higher elevation to the rest of the men.

He heard the sound of rock crumbling underfoot and raised his handgun in the direction of the noise. A single crack from Hall's rifle reverberated off of the surrounding landscape followed by a muffled shout. Jack squeezed off two rounds in the direction of the shout for good measure.

"Got him!" Hall yelled. Jack could hear the two men moving. If there was more than one soldier in this close to them, the shot would've given away their position. He followed suit and crossed to the other side of the little ravine.

"Morgan," Jack called softly.

"Here sir."

Jack turned in the direction of the young marine's voice. "Did we have any luck requesting air support?"

"I'm just getting something now actually sir," he said excitedly. "There's a Spectre on its way. ETA one hour."

They just had to hold out for one more hour, he thought. He didn't let it show how relieved he was. It was getting close to sunrise.

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay on this chapter. Even though I knew what I wanted from it I wasn't very confident about writing it, so I stuck it aside and kept going with some later chapters. Thank you so much to all the followers/readers/reviewers. I've been trying to get back to all the reviewers individually, but some of the nicest comments have been guests who I have no way of contacting. Thank you all so much! As always, criticism welcome, but please go easy on me if I've gotten some of the technical military aspects wrong.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**_


	7. Into the Fire

**7.**

**Into the Fire**

The sky brightening over the horizon seemed to be chasing them, creeping in on the peripheral of the Spectre's windshields. It would've been beautiful if it didn't also mean that they were quickly running out of time. They'd had to make a significant detour to avoid a radar site. Sam could feel herself growing anxious but she resisted the urge to push the heavy plane any faster. They needed to conserve their fuel for the trip back to base.

Captain Keenan rejoined her in the cockpit. He seemed to sense her tension.

"We're nearly there Lieutenant," he said. "You wanna take five?"

"I'm fine sir."

"Go stretch your legs, Carter, that's an order."

She wanted to argue, but didn't dare. Wordlessly she relinquished the controls and decided to go take a wander around the battle centre. It wasn't long before she found herself hovering around Miller. He had his headphones on, a little scowl on his face. No doubt he was listening for communications from the team on the ground. It was thirty seconds before he realised she was even there. When he did, he gave her a nod and slipped one headphone to the side.

"Hey Carter. Cap kick you off the deck?"

"That's affirmative," she said with a sigh and took the empty seat next to him. "Where's Harris?"

"He also went walkabout. It's been a long night."

She nodded and Miller went back to his task. She watched him for a little longer and was just about to leave him in peace when his eyebrows shot up.

"What is it?" she asked, leaning in closer. He started punching co-ordinates into his computer.

"That was base," he replied. "They've given us the co-ordinates of the friendlies and the secure channel they're using. I'm gonna try and contact them now."

He reached over to switch to speaker and re-adjusted his mic.

"This is Vegas 1 of the 16th, do you read, over?"

There was the crackle of static and Sam sat quietly, vaguely aware that Harris had joined them.

"Vegas, this is Bravo. Read you loud and clear, over."

"We read you Bravo. What's your situation?"

"Waiting for the cavalry Vegas. What's your ETA?"

"You should be hearing us round about now Bravo," Miller grinned.

Sam took a look at the co-ordinates that Miller had typed in and then bolted for the cockpit. They were only about two minutes away.

* * *

Jack finished giving the details of their situation to the Spectre and signed off. Right on cue, he heard the low drone of its engines approaching. He was trying not to count his chickens, but the growing buzz of excitement from the men was infectious.

"Settle down guys," he said. "If we can hear it, the Iraqis can too. We need to stay alert."

"Colonel." It was Hall. Jack was impressed with the kid. He and Kawalsky had stayed coherent all night, staving off at least three separate attacks.

"What is it marine?" Jack made his way over to the young man's position.

"Sir, I can't feel my arms anymore."

Jack heard Kawalsky snort.

"That's enough Captain," he said sternly.

"I'll cover for him," Cromwell offered.

Jack helped the two men change positions, it was still pretty dark and moving around was difficult. Hall crouched down beside him and Jack could tell he was rubbing at his hands and wrists.

"You OK Hall?"

"Yes sir," he whispered. "Hey, what was the Spectre's call sign?"

"Vegas 1," Jack answered.

"That's my brother's plane."

"Your brother's Air Force?" Jack was surprised.

"He was always the smart one sir."

"What's he do?"

"He's a gunner, Colonel."

"Son," Jack said, "you do realise the only difference between you and him is that he has a bigger gun?"

"Not where it counts," Hall grinned.

Jack grimaced. There were a few snorts and chuckles from the men who had overheard. _Jarheads_. At least they were in good spirits, he thought.

In the next few seconds, all conversations were drowned out as the AC-130 flew right over them. It seemed to be bringing the morning light along with it. Jack quickly ordered the unit into defensive positions. He could hear the plane coming back around again. There was no mistaking the sound of the howitzer. There was a massive explosion along the top of the gulch just overhead and Jack realised that one of the track vehicles had been sitting up there waiting for them.

Gunfire erupted from numerous positions around their location as the Iraqis attempted to fire in the direction of the new attack, Jack's unit at the bottom of the wadi momentarily forgotten. It seemed like a whole platoon had been closing in on them during the night. Jack took advantage, ordering the men to open fire with whatever ammunition they had left. The engines of the Spectre grew louder again and another explosion followed. Jack guessed that it was the second vehicle. Man, these guys were accurate.

Within a few minutes the firefight was nearly over. His ears were ringing from the noise. The gunship circled again, this time using the gaitling gun, driving the remaining soldiers to retreat. Jack signalled the teams to start moving out. They moved quickly along the wadi, securing higher ground as they went. Before they hit open ground, Jack called Morgan over.

"We need to get a message back to base," he said. "Let them know we're in the clear for the moment, but we're gonna need to be extracted. And soon."

Morgan nodded and Jack left him to send the message while he did a quick survey of their new position. He noticed Cromwell doing the same. The sun was just about over the horizon now. He could see the Spectre making a slow orbit above them. In a moment of gratitude, Jack gave a small salute in its direction. He didn't want to think about how close it had been. They'd been fish in a barrel. He made his way back over to Morgan.

"Sir, two Pave Lows are already on the way. They were dispatched two hours ago. They'll be here in about fifteen minutes."

"Good to hear, marine."

"We also heard from Vegas 1, sir. They're gonna cover us until the Pave Lows arrive. Apparently another Iraqi platoon has been sighted in the area."

Jack nodded, eyes on the Spectre as it circled back towards them. His breath caught when he saw a flash of light trail up from the horizon towards the gunship. The plane banked hard and released a stream of flares, but it was too close to the ground to avoid the surface-to-air missile and it clipped the tail. Everyone seemed to freeze as the nightmare played out. The plane straightened out and it looked like the pilot was trying to bring it down on its belly. For a second, Jack thought they might actually put her down in one piece, but just before it hit, one wing dipped into the earth, digging in and flinging the massive plane around, sending up plumes of sand in a giant cloud. It broke apart. The ground shook from the force of the impact. Jack waited for the fireball, but nothing happened. He stood transfixed for just an instant before instinct kicked in.

"Cromwell! Jones! We're gonna check for survivors, the rest of you stay here. Kawalsky, you're in charge."

"I'm coming with you!" Hall shouted. He was white as a sheet.

Jack hesitated. He didn't want the kid to go charging in, but it was his brother in that wreck and he understood why he wanted to come with them. He nodded and motioned Hall forward. Picking a path along the ravine, they stayed low, moving quickly towards the downed plane.

The first thing they came to was the tail section, which had actually been thrown into the gulch. They all did a quick check of the wreckage and the surrounds, but there were no bodies, so they kept moving.

By the time they reached the fuselage, the fumes from the jet fuel were overpowering. Jack was surprised that it hadn't all blown sky high. He called them to a halt.

"You guys are staying out here," he commanded. Hall opened his mouth to protest, but Jack raised his hand to silence him. There was no way in hell he was sending any of these men in there when it could blow at any minute. "That's an order."

"Everyone saw that plane go down, Colonel," Cromwell said.

"I know." He understood. They wouldn't be the only ones eager to get to it. He gave the man a grim smile and flipped his handgun around, handing it over to Jones. "Stay down, and if you have to shoot at something, try and aim _away _from the plane, OK?."

He made his way carefully through the debris and approached the fuselage from what looked like the back section. It was lying on its side, metal looking like shredded paper. He found a gap and climbed carefully through it. Inside, there was very little light, not even the glow of instrumentation. No power, he thought. That was something at least. He turned on his torch and did a careful sweep around the section he was in. He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a second against the grizzly scene. No matter how many times he'd witnessed men killed in the field, it never got any easier. He was glad Hall hadn't come in with him. He thought of Sara and Charlie and steadied himself for the task at hand.

For some of them, he knew he didn't need to check for a pulse, but he did anyway. He wanted to be sure. He was collecting dog tags, and he planned to personally inform the families of these men that they died saving him and his unit. _Men _and_ women_.

_Lieutenant Carter_.

The thought hadn't even occurred to him before. She was co-piloting a Spectre in the 16th. God, he hoped this wasn't her plane. It made it worse to think that he may have known someone in this carnage. The last time he'd seen her, she was dropping him off down the road from the barracks after that early morning bike ride. That had been months ago. He shook the thought from his mind.

His radio crackled to life. "Colonel, do you need a medic in there?" It was Jones.

"Negative, Sergeant."

The radio went silent again. He didn't want to think about how Hall was reacting right now.

He made his way towards the far end, climbing over terminals and chairs. It was brighter towards the front but there was a lot of sand in the air, limiting his vision and making him cough. It didn't help that the fumes were starting to make him a little dizzy too. The front section was partially buried. He crouched down, scanning the surroundings. He spotted the nose of the plane a little way off.

He reached for his radio. "Jones, I'm going to check out the nose. It's about seventy metres from the fuselage. Any word on those choppers?"

"Roger sir. Morgan made contact with the Pave Lows. Their ETA is about three minutes, but that platoon is closing in on this location."

"Roger."

He took one more look to make sure it was clear and dropped to the ground, crawling out. Pulling himself to his feet, he ran towards the rest of the wreckage. It looked like it was on its roof, the nose cone pointing slightly up. He ducked into it, a sense of urgency gripping him.

The two pilots were silhouetted against the light coming in through the shattered windshield, still strapped into their chairs by their harnesses, arms dangling freely. Jack thought it looked like a roller-coaster ride gone wrong. There was glass everywhere. He could tell at least one of them had broken their neck. He made his way over. The tilt and curve of the surface that was once the ceiling made it awkward. He checked the pulse of the pilot with the broken neck and pulled off his tags. Turning towards the second pilot, he froze. It _was _Carter.

It might have just been the jet fuel, but he felt like he was going to be sick. What a waste, he thought. She shouldn't even have been here. She should be flying shuttles and exploring space, _not _getting shot at and killed while saving his skin.

He pressed his fingers to her neck and she groaned.

"Lieutenant!"

Resisting the urge to just cut her down, he quickly started assessing her injuries. Her helmet had a massive crack in it. He thought she must have hit the instrument panel pretty hard. He also spotted a large sliver of glass buried in her thigh. There were some minor scratches too, but nothing to worry about. At that moment his concern was the blood oozing from her thigh. The possible head injury could wait.

He started pulling his med supplies out of his vest, looking for a tourniquet. He eased it around the top of her thigh and pulled it tight. Her eyes flew open and she gasped.

"It's OK, it's OK." He tried to soothe her, squeezing her hand.

"Colonel?" Her voice was shaky and weak.

"That's right, Carter. Me again." She gave him a wobbly smile.

"Did we crash the Indian?"

If the circumstances had been different, Jack would've found it funny.

"No Carter," he said. "I'm gonna have to pull this glass from your leg and then I'm cutting you down, do you understand?" She didn't reply.

He was acutely aware that time was ticking by. The Pave Lows must have arrived by now, and that meant the platoon was closer as well. He had to speed things up. He gripped the shard and yanked it. She screamed and passed out. He quickly applied the pressure bandage and was just about to start cutting her down when he looked through the windshield and noticed movement on the horizon. _Shit_. They were here.

He reached for his radio. "Jones, do you read me? Over."

"Yes sir. Pave Lows are here. One of them just picked up Kawalsky's group. The other one is heading over to us. The Iraqis are here, Colonel."

"I saw them," he said. "Sergeant, we've got a survivor. I need assistance with moving her."

"Roger, I'm coming in now. Over."

In less than a minute, Jones was ducking into the cockpit. They worked together in silence to cut the Lieutenant down. She had regained consciousness and was taking some of her own weight. She was tough, he'd give her that. They were making their way back out when the first shots split the air, a few of them ricocheted off the side of the plane. They pulled back behind the wreckage.

"Colonel, we're trapped." Jones looked like he was just about holding it together.

"No worse than last night, Sergeant," Jack replied. "Do you still have my handgun?"

He nodded and passed it over. Jack checked the clip and snapped it back into place.

"You just have to make it over that rise. I'm gonna cover you."

"Sir, if they keep shooting over here, the whole place is gonna go up."

"I am aware, Sergeant." His tone was icy. He wasn't going to sit there and argue with the kid.

Jones got the point. "Yes sir."

"And take these." Jack pulled out the dog tags he'd collected and stuffed them into Jones' pocket.

With a final nod, Jones pulled Carter's arm over his shoulder to support her and got ready to move. Jack readied himself to lay down cover fire.

"Go!"

Several more shots pinged off the plane as Jones and Carter made their awkward dash. Jack returned fire, keeping the Iraqis temporarily distracted, but he was running out of ammo, fast.

He stole a glance over his shoulder to check on Jones' progress, watching as they disappeared over the rise. He waited half a beat before moving to follow them, but was stopped in his tracks by a searing pain burning through his side. He fell back towards the cover of the plane. When he clutched his hand to his side, it came away bloody.

Jack concentrated on breathing through the pain. He was trying hard to stay calm and lucid. He needed a plan, but he knew he didn't have a whole lot of options. There were about five rounds left in his gun, and he wasn't going to make it to the Pave Low under his own steam anymore.

He could hear the Iraqi soldiers shouting across to each other as they closed in on him, and in the distance, the rotors of the chopper. He didn't want to risk another aircraft, another crew. Not today. He felt himself fading. Movement in his peripheral vision snapped him back into the present. Before he could blink, he'd aimed and fired at the soldier coming over the top of the wrecked plane.

There was only one option left. He looked over at the crumpled fuselage of the Spectre. The morning sun was already so warm he could see the fumes from the jet fuel rising in waves. He was going to scorch the earth. He raised his gun towards it, and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks again to all the readers/reviewers/followers!**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**_


	8. Going Under

**8.**

**Going Under**

"_You burned me out but I'm back at your door_

_Like Joan of Arc coming back for more "_

_- Garbage_

Sam knew her legs were working but they weren't moving her forward so much as just keeping her upright. When she tried to look up to focus on where they were going, her eyes swam, dark spots and pin-pricks of light obscuring everything. It was painfully bright and she couldn't remember ever feeling such a strong desire to vomit.

And then she was staring at sand. It felt gritty and warm between her fingers. Her stomach spasmed and she felt _so _much better. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth, but more hands were gripping her, pulling her up and forward again. Always going forward. She could see a little better though, could make out the shape of a helicopter. People were shouting but the buzzing in her ears was drowning it out. Maybe that was just the helicopter though, she thought. Where had a helicopter come from anyway? Where was her plane?

_The Colonel is here._

She tried to stop, looking back in confusion. She couldn't see him. She felt the hand on her arm tighten, but in the next second they were hit by a wall of heat. She found herself on the ground again. This time, the person at her side had fallen with her. She pushed herself up into a kneeling position and watched as the sky burned.

* * *

It seemed like a very long time later that she became aware of her surroundings again. She had that familiar pulling feeling low in her gut that told her that she was flying. The buzz in her head had become a high-pitched whine. She tried to sit up a little, but she felt a stab of pain through her head that was so intense she nearly threw up again. She brought her hand up to her mouth. Her skin was hot, like she'd been sunburned.

"Lieutenant, can you hear me?"

Someone was steadying her, helping her to sit up. They brought something up to her lips and she smelled water. She wanted more, but could only take a few sips.

"Where are we?" she finally managed. Her voice was loud in her head, but she was sure she was only whispering. It took her a long time to form the words.

"We're heading back to base, Lieutenant. Not much longer now."

She blinked, trying to clear her vision and take a look at the faces around her. She didn't recognise any of them.

"Where's my crew?"

No one answered her.

"Harris was shouting..." she trailed off. Her head felt like it was going to explode.

"Jones, are you sure you can't give her anything? She's freaking me out."

"She's got a massive concussion, _sir_. If she goes to sleep she might go into a coma." Sam could hear the anger in his voice.

"OK, OK, calm down. I've just never seen someone stuck on a loop like that before. She's asked the same question about ten times."

"Cromwell, show some goddamn respect. Her entire crew is dead, my brother among them. Personally, I don't care how many questions she asks or how many times she asks them."

_Oh God. _She could feel tears start to slide down her face. She tried to look in the direction of the third voice. She had understood, and she wanted him to know.

"I'm so sorry," she choked.

He moved towards her and took her hand. "You have _nothing _to be sorry about ma'am."

She wanted to say more, ask him his name, anything, but she felt unconsciousness pulling at her. It was like the tide, coming over her in waves, and dragging her away. Away from the pain and the noise. She wasn't sure why she was fighting it, but she struggled anyway. It was like being stuck in that moment just before wakefulness, being aware but not being able to move or speak. And she tried, and tried, and tried, all the while she knew time was passing and the throb in her ears and behind her eyes was getting stronger and stronger, forcing everything else out. Everything except the pressure on her fingers when he squeezed her hand. _That's right, Carter. Me again._

"Colonel?" she murmured.

"Colonel O'Neill?" he asked, sounding surprised. She could feel herself ebbing.

"We should keep her talking." Jones. That was the one called Jones. "Did you know the Colonel, Lieutenant?"

"I gave him a lift once." She tried to smile, her head rolling to the side. The sudden movement was agony and she was momentarily paralysed by it. When it passed she exhaled a long ragged breath.

"I don't think we should make her talk anymore, it's hurting her."

"It's better than a coma, Hall."

"Where is he? He was here." Her voice sounded so thin and weak, but she was determined. She had to know. They would tell her and then she would rest. She would let it flow over her for the last time.

"That is some coincidence, ain't it? In the middle of all this, she gets rescued by a special ops Colonel that she just happens to know." There was something in that one's voice that she didn't like.

"I don't care what your rank is Cromwell. You're Air Force and we're Marines. You keep talking like that and I will not hesitate to shut you up." He paused and Sam could tell he was trying to compose himself. There was so much emotion emanating from him. "No matter what, Colonel O'Neill and the crew of that Spectre saved our lives."

She felt his grip on her hand tighten again. "I'm sorry Lieutenant, he was taking fire and the fuel from the plane exploded. We couldn't go back in."

The heat, she remembered the heat. Burning, burning. Red and orange and blue and grey, like the most tangible, living sunset. He'd been in that inferno? She didn't want to know anymore. It wasn't real. She closed her eyes and let go, allowing herself to drift. The sounds around her dissolved, and she was weightless, floating out into inky blackness.

* * *

The smell was the first thing he registered. Sharp and sour and damp. Urine, sweat, and fear. If he'd ever had smelling salts shoved up his nose, he imagined it would feel something like this. Oh, he was definitely alive. Unfortunately. He thought he'd been pretty calculating. He'd been close enough to go up with the plane. Failing that, his blood pressure had been plummeting so rapidly before firing into the fuselage that he'd been sure he was close to bleeding out. So much for Plan B, he thought, feeling the cold, hard floor pressing against his eye socket. Face down in filth. That's where he was. _Crap_. He tried to roll over, but only got about half way before the pain shot through his side. He hissed and lay still.

Gathering himself, he sat up, pushing through the twisting, tearing feeling in his abdomen, ignoring every impulse to cry out. He had a good idea where he was, and he was exactly where he hadn't wanted to be. It was dark, probably nighttime, but if he was being watched he didn't want to let them know he was awake, or show any weakness. He needed time to think, to evaluate the situation, to prepare himself.

He peeled his shirt away from his body. It was tacky, and pulled at his skin, making a sound that made him feel sick. The metallic smell of blood wasn't helping either. He slid his hand underneath, prodding and feeling around the wound. The bullet had actually gone clean through, and since he was still alive and kicking, had obviously missed all his vital organs. There was just an awful lot of blood. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness and he was quite certain there was a congealing pool of it on the floor where he'd been lying. They'd probably just dumped him in here and if he lived, well, then they had someone to interrogate, didn't they?

He started testing each limb in turn. Everything seemed to be working, so he tried to stand, immediately his head spun and he found himself scrabbling for something to hold onto as he pitched forward, eventually finding himself on his hands and knees. _Woah_. His body was still feeling the blood loss.

He needed to familiarise himself with his surroundings, but there was no way in hell he was going to crawl around the foul, dingy, little cell on all fours like some caged animal. The thought incensed him. It was bad enough that he had to move from where he was now. He was exposed there in the middle of the floor. He found a corner by the bars and positioned himself with his back against a wall. The concrete was freezing. It was good. It would keep him alert. He didn't want them to catch him sleeping. They would come at daybreak. He was back at the bottom of that wadi, waiting for them, and this time there wasn't going to be a rescue party. The Air Force would think he was dead. That's what they would tell Sara.

_Sara_. It was her nightmare come true. What would she tell Charlie? They'd never discussed it. It had seemed morbid, but now he wished that they had. He wanted to know how his little boy would remember him.

He shook himself. He _wasn't _dead. Not yet. Carter, Jones, Hall, Cromwell. They were all OK, and he would be too. Things were just a little bit more complicated now. He would know more in the morning, and he'd take it a step at a time.

He leaned his head back and busied himself thinking about the calibre and range of every weapon he'd ever used. When he got bored of that he started replaying all his favourite baseball games in his head. Eventually, he noticed a tiny, barred vent, high up towards the ceiling. He could see the sky, and it was getting lighter. Soon. They'd be coming soon.

The clank of metal on metal was startling, but he held onto himself, forcing a smile as he slowly turned his head towards his visitors. He cleared his throat.

"Well," Jack said coolly. "Good morning, campers."

* * *

**__****A/N: Thanks again to all the readers/reviewers/followers! I wish I could've posted this one sooner and I apologise profusely for the wait. Unfortunately/fortunately, I've been on holiday!**

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**


	9. Dealer Takes All

**__****A/N: I feel like I should put a little warning here. This is slightly more violent than previous chapters. You can guess why!**

* * *

**9.**

**Dealer Takes All**

For a moment, just a moment, he had the feeling of waking in his own bed. His body lacked the ache he got from lying on concrete. Before that little thought could even spark, the part of his brain that was already conscious started to laugh. _You're an idiot O'Neill._ When he finally opened his eyes he wasn't just laughing internally anymore. The sickening, manic sound escaped his lips and bounced around his prison walls.

But there _was _something different.

He made himself sit up, swaying a little. He was getting weaker, and he couldn't help but laugh again. He'd been prepared for violence and intimidation, but not this. What was more civil? Torturing a man or starving him? Or was it all just the same? They'd been taking full advantage of his injury. His body was still battling to rebuild itself, to get his blood volume back up, and they didn't have to do a thing except give him the bare minimum. It would be a quick way to break a man, but he knew it was a just a waiting game. Eventually he would call their bluff. Eventually, they would have to stop starving him. The less they got from him, the quicker that would happen. So instead of pacing around his cell, letting his nerves fray, wearing himself down psychologically, he'd taken to doing absolutely nothing. Dozing for hours and hours on end each day for seven days now.

And there _was _something different today.

He blinked, looking around the room, letting his eyes come to rest on his hands. His hands, that weren't pressing into the biting, rough surface of the floor as they normally would. His hands, that seemed instead to be sinking. Sinking into something _soft_. He was on a mattress.

It was filthy, and no doubt covered in lice, but it was a mattress. He had no idea when it had been dragged in, or how he'd even ended up lying on it, and he didn't give a damn either. It was more than a mattress. It was a concession.

He resisted the urge to vocalise the feeling of gratification growing in his chest. He lay back on the mattress and stretched, a little tingle running up his spine. He couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from quirking upward. No one was there to see it anyway.

Jack O'Neill: 1

And the crowd goes wild.

He was so lost in his reverie that he didn't hear the footsteps in the corridor. The door clanged and he sat up quickly, ignoring the brief thud of his heart against his ribs as it struggled to equalise his blood pressure. The guard stood by the door, watching him silently, patiently. It was clear that he was waiting for Jack to stand. And Jack knew that he couldn't risk it. If he stood, the guard would see how unsteady he was. He suspected that was exactly what the guard wanted.

The final test to keep his concession. He was being called first. He wasn't even sure what the stakes were. Surely this wasn't really about the mattress? Show or fold, Jack. Show or fold. Every second he spent motionless showed his indecision. Reverence. Submission. Weakness. That's what they wanted. Unfortunately for them, he'd never been very good at any of those things. Maybe he was the unfortunate one, he thought ruefully. Either way, he knew he'd lost. So he smiled sweetly at the guard, took a deep breath, and got to his feet.

He fought against the lightheadedness, the involuntary shake in his fatigued muscles, and held steady. He didn't know whether to be surprised or proud.

A slow smile started to spread across the guard's face and Jack felt his insides grow cold.

"So Colonel? You are feeling strong today?" His English was excellent.

The guard tipped his head and immediately there were two other guards outside the door. They entered the cell quickly, one to each side of him. Jack kept his eyes on the first guard. Hands gripped his arms and shoulders, forcing him down into a kneeling position while the first guard approached with a small sack. He brought it up to Jack's face and Jack jerked his head away.

"Three against one, hey? One, starving man?"

He was really shaking now as he strained against their hold, but he didn't look away, didn't break eye-contact with the first guard. Jack realised that he wasn't a guard at all. He was the interrogator. The man just smiled at him, moving the sack towards him again. Jack pulled back further.

"I'll bet you guys get together and practice punching puppies on the weekend. Especially you, henchman number one," Jack said, leveling a glare at the man standing before him.

The interrogator's smile faltered. Jack knew he was being too aggressive with this man. He was raising the stakes again and things were going to get ugly. Hell, maybe this was his Plan C. He'd goad them into killing him. He probably deserved nothing less. He had blood on his hands and it wasn't his own.

The interrogator nodded at one of the guards. Jack could feel the grip on his arm shift and then the guard roughly grabbed a handful of hair, pulling his head up and forward. He bit back a wince. And then everything went black. The sack was thick and difficult to breath through. He tried hard not to start panting, to keep his breathing even. He didn't want them to think he was panicking. Because he wasn't. Not yet anyway.

They yanked him forward. He tried to keep his feet under him but they weren't interested in walking him anywhere. That would be too dignified. He was being dragged out and into the corridor. He could feel the skin scraping from his bare feet. Fine, he thought. If that's what they want to do. He closed his eyes and went limp. He might have lost weight, but he was still a tall man with a strong build. He was still heavy. One of the guards lost his grip and Jack hit the floor shoulder first. He used the momentum to pull himself free from the other guard and roll onto his back, quickly pulling the sack off of his head. The interrogator was standing over him. He certainly wasn't smiling now. Jack grinned up at him defiantly.

It was pointless to struggle. He knew it. His adrenaline was pumping now and he wasn't thinking especially clearly. But he hoped the interrogator had gotten the message - he wasn't going to be dragged anywhere while he was still conscious. They could either let him walk, or they could knock him out. Of course, they always had the option of shooting him. He didn't want to die, not if he was really honest with himself. It was just way too early to be revealing his hand to his captors.

"Your move henchman number one," he said, breathing a little harder than he'd have liked.

The interrogator spoke to one of the guards in Arabic and the guard disappeared out of Jack's range of view. Turning his attention back to Jack, he lifted his foot, placing it on Jack's side and pushed down, grinding the heel of his boot into his wound. Jack stifled a cry, his vision blurring with the pain.

"Maybe they don't teach you respect in America, Colonel, but you will learn."

He leaned in, a sneer on his face now. Jack clenched his jaw and forced himself not to look away. It was hard. He was so close to passing out. He was sure the guy could see his eyes glazing over.

The guard returned and the interrogator stepped off of him. Jack blew out the breath he'd been holding, trying to get a look at what the guard had brought back. Plastic ties and what looked like a wooden plank.

"We doing a little light construction?"

The interrogator didn't respond. The guards pulled him back up onto his knees, twisting his hands behind his back. He felt plastic biting into the skin around his wrists as they tightened one of the ties. For the first time, Jack noticed that he was sitting in front of another cell. One that looked like it could have been adjacent to his own. He hadn't realised there'd been other cells in this corridor. At least, he thought he was still in the same corridor. He'd never heard anyone else.

A man sat behind the bars, staring at him. Jack didn't think he was American. He smiled and nodded at the man, ignoring the guards and the interrogator. Knowing that he wasn't alone was comforting, but Jack saw that the man's eyes were filled with fear. Fear, and something else. Resignation maybe. They sat silently staring at each other for what seemed like a long time. It was only when the other prisoner's eyes flicked to the side that Jack remembered the interrogator. Too late to move, the plank hit him squarely on the side of the head. His ear exploded. Dazed, he fell over. He could feel the trickle of fluid down his face. He'd never burst his eardrum before, but knew that's what had happened. The world was revolving and he didn't know if he was lying down or standing up. He retched, tasting nothing but bile.

The interrogator had made his move, and Jack was so disorientated that he could do nothing as they grabbed his arms and pulled him down the passage.

Jack O'Neill: 0

* * *

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**


	10. Phoenix

**10.**

**Phoenix**

Everything was so warm and floaty and white. She couldn't remember ever waking up quite like this before. There was a buffer between her and the world and she took her time, enjoying the separation. She started at the edges of her field of vision, taking in the pale walls and shiny floors. The room was sparse, which was oddly soothing. She noted the plainness of the covers at the foot of the bed. Clean. It was all very crisp and clean and minimal.

Finally, she focused on her hands which lay over the covers. She took in a sharp breath. It was her first uncomfortable sensation. There was an IV in the back of one hand, a sensor of some kind taped to the fingers on the other. She tried to flex them. They were stiff and she could feel the pinch from the IV needle. She scowled at it, but resisted the urge to remove it, distracted instead by the hospital tag that circled her wrist. Her wrist looked thin.

There was also a persistent beeping noise that reminded Sam of the sound a truck would make while backing up. But in slow motion. It was really annoying.

OK. It didn't take a genius. She knew she was in a hospital. Her floaty, disconnected feeling was fast becoming clouded with confusion. She tried to sit up a little, realising that her motor control hadn't fully kicked in just yet. She lay back against the pillows again. Her brain still felt foggy. She thought she'd give herself a few more minutes. A few more minutes, and _then _she'd start freaking out.

What had happened? She knew _who _she was. She was First Lieutenant Samantha Carter. She was a co-pilot with the 16th. She remembered flying over the desert. They'd been on a mission. Why did her brain feel so damn spongy? She couldn't think straight. Where was everyone anyway? She tried to call out but her voice was just a strangled whisper. _What the hell?! _She could feel the panic rising and she started looking around the bed. There must be one of those things you used to call nurses here somewhere, she thought. She located it and started punching the button furiously, her hand trembling pathetically.

She heard the soft clicking of shoes in the hallway. They were coming quickly. Hurried, even. They came to a stop in the doorway.

"Sam!"

The voice was familiar, and the figure swept into the room. _Liz_. Relief flooded through Sam's body. _Oh Liz_.

"Liz," she croaked. She thought her face would break in half with the effort of smiling.

Liz was by her side now, her hands moving deftly over machines, tubes, sensors, coming to rest on Sam's cheeks. They felt so warm on her skin.

"Sam," Liz smiled. "You little bitch."

Her voice was teasing but Sam could see the tears welling in her friend's eyes as she searched her face intently.

"What hap..."

"Shh, Sam. Don't say a word. I'll bring you some water."

Liz stepped away from the bed and Sam's cheeks immediately felt cooler at the loss of contact. She took a deep breath. Something was very, very, wrong. Something very, very, bad had happened. She knew that much now, even if she couldn't remember what. She felt fear growing in her chest. A weight hanging on her sternum.

Liz returned with a cup and set it down on the little stand next to the bed before turning to help Sam sit up. She fussed with the bed and the pillows, smoothing the covers. Her movements were slow and precise. Sam knew she was stalling. She cleared her throat and Liz reached for the cup, bringing it up for Sam to drink. Sam caught her friend's wrist and looked her steadily in the eye.

"What happened, Liz?" Her voice was still raspy and weak, but she put as much force into it as she could.

Liz sighed, and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

"Take the cup first," she said.

Sam lifted the cup from Liz's hand and drank. It was wonderful.

"What do you remember?"

"We were on a mission," she said, her voice smoother now.

"You don't remember the crash?" Liz's brow furrowed.

Crash? Sam thought carefully, searching desperately for the last images in her mind before she woke up in this room. Her head was so fuzzy, like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Red and orange. She remembered red and orange. She remembered those colours like she was experiencing them rather than just seeing them. Like she was being consumed by them. She shook her head.

"My head doesn't feel right."

Liz leaned over and gently disconnected the IV.

"That might be the morphine, hun."

"Ah." Sam could tell Liz was trying not to grin, but she really wasn't finding any of this very funny. "Liz, please?"

Liz's face became more serious than Sam could ever remember seeing. She dropped her eyes to the bed and took Sam's hand into her own, squeezing very gently. Sam tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

"Your crew answered a call for air support. The plane was hit by surface-to-air fire and you crashed."

Well, Sam had already gathered that there'd been a crash, but that obviously wasn't the whole story. She waited for Liz to continue.

"You suffered a really serious head injury and you've been unconscious for a while."

"How long is a 'while'?"

"Nearly six weeks now."

Sam felt her eyes widening. Everything else froze. _Six weeks?_ Her shaky hands. Her wasted limbs. They told her that it was true. It was a shock, but she supposed it could have been worse. She didn't think it explained Liz's behaviour. She was still missing something.

"How's everyone else doing?"

Liz looked around the room. Everywhere but at Sam. And there it was. The moment the pieces fell into place. And Sam knew. Someone hadn't been as lucky. She gripped Liz's hand.

"Who died, Liz?"

"Sam," Liz finally met her gaze. "You were the only survivor, and we came very close to losing you too."

Sam dropped Liz's hand immediately, rolling over and pulling her knees up to her chest. It wasn't easy. Her body resisted. She felt so small. She was overwhelmed with guilt and wanted to cry, but it was like her body was desiccated. Maybe it was the meds. She didn't know. It was several minutes before she even registered that Liz was stroking her hair.

"I promised your dad that I'd call him if your condition changed. I should go do that," she said softly. "And I'll get one of the other nurses to come help you get cleaned up in the meantime."

She nodded her head against the pillow. She wasn't even sure if Liz could see the gesture, but the bed bounced gently when Liz stood up. She heard her leaving the room.

"Liz?"

"Yeah?"

"Where _am _I?"

"You're at Eglin," she said. "I'll be right back, OK?"

Sam didn't reply and Liz left.

So she was in Florida, thousands of miles from where it had happened. She had so many questions. Six weeks might not have been a very long time in the grand scheme of things, but it was like she'd been watching a movie that had a pivotal scene missing. A big section taken right out and lost on the cutting room floor.

She was sure it would take a while for the morphine to leave her system, but her head felt a little clearer anyway. She really wanted to remember those last minutes before the crash, but now she was afraid. Maybe it would be better not to know.

She closed her eyes. The first time she'd done so voluntarily for a very long time. The light from the window was bright and filtered through her eyelids. Red and orange. Why was this the only thing she was able to recall? She focused on it. Heat, there was heat. It was intense. She remembered sitting in warm sand. She laughed at herself. _Sounds like a day at the beach Sam_. She tried to refocus herself. Why was she sitting in the sand? She'd fallen, that's why. She'd fallen because something had knocked her off of her feet. There'd been an explosion. Someone had told her that, she was sure. There was a fireball in front of her and it had been her plane. Her crew, her friends, going up in flames. She wanted to be unconscious again, because now that the image had materialised, she couldn't shake it. She couldn't see anything else.

The tears started to flow. Her body jerked awkwardly as she sobbed silently, and she turned her face away from the light. She knew she was in shock. It was coming over her in waves. She'd opened the floodgate and the full impact of the situation was finally hitting her. After six weeks, they'd probably already had the funerals. But what had they buried? Nothing. There was nothing left of them but a headstone in Arlington. She should've been with them.

She blew out a shuddering breath. She wasn't used to being so overcome with emotion and she tried to rein it back in. She'd always been better at thinking than feeling, and her analytical mind fixated on one question.

If the plane had exploded, how had she made it out?

* * *

**__****A/N: As always, many thanks for the reviews! I hope people are really enjoying this story. I have a little confession to make. I now write these chapters to 'backing tracks'. I find it helps inform the tone for me. This one was primarily written while listening to Purity Ring's Crawlersout. On a loop. Yes, I know it's weirdly obsessive and I don't know why I'm even mentioning it. Maybe if you like/have the song, you can test it out and let me know if it works/doesn't.**

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**


	11. In Loving Memory

**11.**

**In Loving Memory**

_**May 2nd 1991**_

"Are you sure I can't give you anything for it, Tim?"

"Absolutely no way." He shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned that bike is yours, Lieutenant."

He was looking at her so damn earnestly, but she still felt like a thief. She watched him as he absently rubbed the back of his neck. He looked uncomfortable. There was just something _off _about Tim today. He was a little too insistent, a little too earnest, and she was sure she saw pity in his eyes every time he thought she wasn't looking. Well, she didn't want anyone's pity, and she certainly wasn't taking hand-outs. She knew it would be easier to just accept it, but she couldn't. Her dad always did tell her that she always had to do things the hard way. But that was wrong. It wasn't the hard way, just the right way, and she quickly decided to leave something for the bike in the hangar when he wasn't paying attention.

Turning her gaze back to the Indian, she reached out and lovingly ran her fingers over the seat. It was like she was looking at her for the first time. She was so beautiful in the light of day. Bright and smooth like something newborn. Sam barely recognised her. Her memory of the bike had been all shadows and moonlight and excitement. A mysterious and dangerous thing that hummed with a life well travelled. Maybe it was a good thing that she wasn't exactly as Sam remembered. It was easier on her conscience - and on her heart.

Coming back to Hulburt, living in the dorms again, had been hard enough. There were ghosts here. Captain Keenan, Miller, Harris, Hall, her entire crew. But none of them haunted her the way the Colonel did. She couldn't even walk past the barracks without looking for the exact spot she'd dropped him off. It had been the last real time she'd seen him. At least, it was the last time that _felt _real. She could still see his tousled hair, all messy from the wind, and the tired but content smile he'd worn.

At the time she'd been so exhilarated that all she'd been able to do was return his smile, and then he was gone, walking away into the night. She couldn't express how badly she wanted that moment back now. How much she wished she'd said more. Yes, since she'd found out that it had been him, he had never been far from her thoughts, and her thoughts of him would always be tied to this bike. It was a memory and a tribute, and it would be hers for as long as she needed it.

"Lieutenant? Would you like me to fill her up for you?"

She looked up, startled, momentarily forgetting where she was. No wonder people kept giving her those piteous looks.

"I'll get it Tim," she said, composing herself. "I know where everything is."

Besides, she thought, it was the perfect opportunity to find somewhere to leave the money for the Indian. For the gas too.

She wanted to do things the right way. Always.

* * *

"You're insane, you know that? Are you on the blue jello again?" Liz was actually, physically, blocking the doorway, wagging her finger in Sam's direction. "Have you even told your dad yet? He's gonna go nuts."

"Since when do you care what my father thinks?"

"Since I thought it might be a deterrent for you?" Liz shrugged. "It was worth a try anyway."

Sam couldn't help smiling at her friend. Liz was lousy at being serious, even when she _was _serious. Sam dropped the small pile of t-shirts back onto the bed and walked over to her. Liz looked down, crossing her arms across her chest in protest. Sam embraced her anyway, hugging her tightly. Liz didn't respond, standing rigid against her. It was like hugging a pillar, but she didn't let go.

After a minute, Liz sighed, and pressed her forehead to Sam's.

"I don't like this," she whispered.

"I know," Sam said.

"I think you're making a mistake."

"I know."

Sam stepped away, squeezing Liz gently on the arm before going back to packing. Packing was a fairly loose description, really. She was just throwing enough clothes for a few days into a back-pack. She planned to clean out the rest of her stuff some other time.

"You're running away," Liz said. "It's not you, and you know it."

"I'm not running anywhere. I'm making changes. It's not the same thing, is it?"

"Tomayto tomahto," Liz said, crossing the room and plonking herself on a pair of jeans that Sam was just about to pack. Sam rolled her eyes.

"Remind me again how old you are?"

"Old enough to recognise a friend in crisis."

Sam tugged at the jeans and Liz shifted.

"Liz," Sam said softly, sitting down next to her. "You of all people should know that I didn't join the military for me. It's time I faced that fact."

Sam watched Liz sag, the fight finally going out of her.

"I'm gonna miss you hun."

"I won't be far."

"If you're off in space, you'll be about as far as you possibly can be," Liz said, waving one hand in the air and making a face.

Sam grinned. "It's highly unlikely that I'll end up at NASA."

"Yeah right," she snorted.

Sam shook her head and put her arm across her roommate's shoulders, leaning into her. She was trying so hard to be casual, but she was scared. Resigning from the Air Force was a big step, and she wasn't sure what her next move would be after this trip. She just knew she had to do this.

"You know, I think my dad will be much easier," she said. "No sit-in protests, and very little pouting."

Liz chuckled. Sam knew she hadn't meant to.

"OK, OK," Liz said, standing up. "But I still don't have to like it."

She reached over and tipped Sam's bag off of the edge of the bed.

* * *

_**May 5th 1991**_

It had been nearly 1000 miles to DC, and Sam had taken her time, splitting the journey over three days. Riding the Indian was tiring in a way that driving a car wasn't. But it was much more enjoyable, and it was harder to let her mind wander. Every horizon she'd met had brought something new as she cruised along the I-85. She felt like she'd been a part of her surroundings instead of just an observer passing through, and as dumb as it sounded, it really did feel like the beginning of something.

It had been drizzling all morning when she finally arrived at Arlington, and it was letting up a little, but Sam could still feel the light trickle of water down the back of her neck. Definitely one of the cons of riding a motorcycle, she thought, as she located the welcome centre and found a place to park.

She dismounted and removed her helmet, flicking the water from the collar of her jacket. Now that she was here, the feeling of dread was starting to grow in her chest. Each beat of her heart felt as though it would push right through her ribcage. She took a deep breath and willed herself forward.

As she slowly made her way across the parking lot, she noticed how many cars there were and wondered if there were other people here today doing just what she was doing. It had been months since the war had officially ended, so it didn't seem likely, but people were strange that way. Sometimes conflict came easier than confrontation.

It was almost too much for her as she tried to navigate the building and find information on the grave locations. She held the printed map gingerly between her fingers, her hands trembling ever so slightly. The place was so huge it was nearly completely overwhelming. This was not the way she had imagined this. If she just started walking would she find them anyway? Would her heart lead her straight to them? It wasn't like her to have those kinds of thoughts, but she couldn't help but feel that she was connected to them. So she did. She just started walking. It was so entirely unlike her, but she was in no rush.

The first headstone she found was the Captain's, and after his, it was easy finding the rest of her crew. She spent a long time at each one - she had thought about something to say to each of them. Eventually, she lost all track of time as she walked between the rows of headstones and along the many paths, looking for the very last one. The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp and cool. It was getting late and the numbers of visitors had dwindled.

Her attention was diverted when she noticed a little boy standing by one of the monuments. He couldn't have been more than five or six, and Sam couldn't see any other adults around. Concerned, she walked over to him.

"Hey there," she said.

"Hi," he replied, gazing up at her from under the peak of his little red cap.

She crouched down next to him, his eyes never leaving hers as she lowered herself to match his height.

"Are you lost?"

"No ma'am." He was so self-possessed that Sam was taken aback, but she didn't want to leave him by himself.

"Is your mommy around?"

"Mommy wanted to talk to Daddy by herself." His face was so solemn that she felt the knot in her stomach tighten.

"Charlie!"

Sam looked up in the direction of what she suspected was a very worried mother. The woman came over the rise past the monument, hurrying across the slippery grass while somehow still managing to look dignified. Sam could tell that she'd been crying though, and she felt like an intruder in this family's private pain.

"I told you not to go far." Her voice was gentler now as she reached them, and Sam could see the woman's eyes flick over her briefly before focusing again on her child. The little boy remained silent beside her, simply reaching up his hand for his mother to take. Sam watched quietly as the woman closed the gap and took it.

He looked from his mother back to Sam and tipped the peak of his cap with his free hand. It was an odd gesture for a five-year-old to make and Sam wondered if it was something he'd seen his father do. The shimmer of new tears in his mother's eyes confirmed it.

"Bye," he said, and Sam gave him a little wave.

It was clear his mother didn't want, or wasn't able, to speak at that moment, and Sam understood. Unwilling to shatter this woman's desire to be alone with her child in her grief, Sam straightened up, offering only a small nod in acknowledgement. The woman smiled grimly and turned to leave. Sam watched them go, listening to the sound of their shoes on the pathway as they disappeared into the distance. Sound always travelled so much further on grey days.

It wasn't long before she located his headstone. It was simple, and read only _In Loving Memory of Colonel Jonathan J. O'Neill_. She was surprised at the 'Jonathan' bit - she couldn't imagine anyone calling him Jonathan.

She sank down onto the grass beside it. The ground was sodden and the water started soaking through her jeans immediately, cold and uninviting, but she didn't care. She barely even noticed.

_I know why you haunt me, Jack O'Neill._

She'd spend many sleepless nights since her coma thinking about it, feeling guilty and ashamed about not feeling the loss of her crew as much as she did him. But the answer had been obvious, even logical.

It had been tragic that her plane had been hit, but it was a risk they had taken with every mission they accepted and it was _exactly _what they'd all signed up for. The fact that the Spectre hadn't exploded on impact had been purely coincidental.

But the Colonel. She had read the reports. She'd even listened to the tapes. The tapes, which had been especially difficult to get through. She couldn't begin to articulate how she'd felt when she realised it had been his voice she'd heard that morning as she sat beside Miller.

She knew what he'd done.

He'd crawled through a wreckage drenched in jet fuel, still loaded with munitions, and he'd insisted on going in alone with no weapon. All the while knowing that a platoon of Iraqi soldiers were closing in on their location. And for what? To collect dog tags? He must've realised that the chances of survival would be next to nothing, that going in on a search and rescue under those circumstances was not worth the risk.

But he'd done it anyway, and he'd found her, and despite her position and injuries, he didn't leave. He'd weighed in and decided that her life was worth saving at the risk of his own. One life for another, and what difference did it really make in the long run? Why was her life worth more? Why had he done it? Why? It was the kind of thing she figured she should have had a say in.

_I know why you haunt me._

It was the why.

For Sam, an unanswered question was something that could easily consume her if she let it, and this was a question that could never be answered.

She didn't know when she'd started to cry, but now the tears were streaming down her face like they would never stop. She swiped uselessly at her eyes and breathed in deeply in an effort to collect herself. She was so sick and tired of the tears. She was so sick of drowning.

She reached out and touched the stone, hard and lifeless under her fingers, but still oddly comforting. It grounded her back to reality.

"Thank you," she whispered, right before the heavens opened up.

* * *

_**May 5th 1991, somewhere in Baghdad**_

Jack knew. The air raid sirens had sounded less and less frequently, and when he realised he hadn't heard one for several days, he had known.

The war was over, and by his count, had been for many, many, weeks. He'd been moved around so much he'd lost all track of days and time. If there was a window, he'd been able to use the sun and the moon, but a lot of the time there hadn't been any windows. Days and nights had passed him by with the only indication being his own body clock.

His second clue that it was over was that they'd stopped showing any interest in him, and Jack was just fine with that. Being beaten within an inch of his life pretty much every interrogation had gotten really old, really fast, but even then, he had to admit, he'd been more hopeful. He'd had more options. He'd either die from one of the beatings after antagonising a guard a little too much, or a bomb from one of his country's own planes would level the place. And both had very nearly happened.

Now, he felt hope slipping away from him as each day passed and absolutely nothing happened. There weren't even any other American POWs in this particular prison - not that he'd seen anyway. No one he could get a message to. No one who might know him, or have heard of him. No one who could tell someone that he was here, that he was alive.

Because he wasn't. He was a ghost.

No one was looking for him because they thought he was dead. He'd been right all along, of course. He'd known that they wouldn't come.

He started to shiver uncontrollably. It got so cold so quickly lately - at least that's what he liked to tell himself. He didn't want to face the fact that he was unravelling with that last thread of disappearing hope.

* * *

**__****A/N: After all the action, it took me a while to switch gears for this. Please let me know if it works! As always, thank you followers/readers/reviewers!**

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**


	12. Barrel of a Gun

**12.**

**Barrel of a Gun**

It was like he was blind. He couldn't see anything at all, not even the faintest glimmer of light, but there was nothing quite like the feel of cold steel. Whether it was in his hand or pressed against his temple, there was no mistaking it. Even with a bag over his head.

_Click._

And there was nothing. Nothing. No sound and complete and utter blackness. It seemed to last forever. Was he dead? Was this what death was like? The inside of a crappy little bag and all you see for the rest of eternity is what you saw at the moment of your death? No wonder people always want to go in their own beds surrounded by their loved ones, because secretly, we've always known that that's the way it is.

"Jack!"

"Sara?" He was stunned and thrilled, but her voice was so full of fear that he panicked immediately. "Sara!"

Light flooded his vision and the world started to re-materialise, even though he couldn't remember feeling anyone remove the bag. And there she was. Right in front of him. Tied to a chair. He couldn't reach her, and he couldn't make out their assailants, but she was in danger. He saw the glint off of the barrel of the gun pointed right at her head.

The panic was overtaking him now, driving him mad in his desperation to reach her. He struggled against his restraints until he felt his muscles burn and tear and she just got further and further away. In a last ditch effort to break free he threw himself sideways and he finally felt the chair he was in move. And he was tipping... tipping... tipping... weightless... falling...

He hit the floor.

"Jack!"

"Sara!"

"Jack." Her voice was hushed and loud all at once, and she was leaning over him.

He blinked.

He _was _on the floor, but it was _his _floor. And that was their bed, and his slippers, and her rug. And here was _his _Sara. And she was safe. She was OK, she was OK, she was OK...

But the look in her eyes was _not _OK.

He sat up and reached for her, cupping her face in his hands, the moonlight from the window dancing across her features. Her cheeks were damp against his palms.

"Sara?" He was so confused.

"You were having nightmares again," she said, pulling back from him.

_Oh._

"Bad?" he asked.

"You tell me." She stood and offered him her hand and it finally registered with him that he'd thrown himself out of his own bed. His shoulder throbbed. He was gonna really feel that in the morning, he thought.

She didn't move, her hand still extended towards him, and he shook his head. He needed a minute. Needed to gather himself because his mind felt so fractured. It had been so vivid, so real. His hand went instinctively to his side, to the taut, raised skin of the scar from the bullet he'd taken in Iraq. He noticed the slickness of his skin, his laboured breathing. He sighed heavily and rubbed his hands over his face, listening to Sara move back around to her side of the bed.

Seven months he'd been home. _Seven_. And it wasn't getting any better. He still felt like he was back there in that prison. Like that moment he'd stepped off of the plane and onto the tarmac and found her waiting for him had never happened. Like this was the dream - a construction of his broken psyche that he'd built to deal with a grim reality. He'd never really come back. Not all the way. Not yet. He was stuck somewhere in between.

He levered himself back onto the bed, settling onto his side. Sara was lying with her back to him, the covers pulled up right to her chin and tucked all around her. She was creating a little barrier between them and he didn't blame her. There was nothing she could do and he knew it made her feel useless. No, worse than that - helpless. It had been happening for so long now that she'd stopped asking him if he was OK, if he wanted a glass of water, if there was anything she could do... Concern had turned into frustration, had turned into anger. But she didn't mean it. She was just tired. She just wanted things back the way they'd been. And so did he - he just didn't know how to get there.

"I can hear you thinking," she said.

"That's 'cause it happens so seldom," he replied, trying to keep his tone light.

She made a little noise through her nose like she'd meant to laugh but didn't quite have the energy, and he allowed himself a small smile, taking the opportunity to move in closer to her. He was waiting for her to stiffen, to pull away, to let him know that she wanted the distance, but she didn't. She didn't protest when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him. For a moment it was a like a weight had been lifted, replaced with hope that was so breakable. It was so fragile that when he finally noticed that she was trembling, it shattered. He knew if he could see her face it would be wet with tears.

* * *

_**January 1992, Colorado Springs**_

Jack angled the rear-view mirror until he caught the reflection of the beaming face of his little boy. Charlie sat strapped into the back seat, enormous brown eyes twinkling, complementing the mischievous and partially toothless grin he wore. He'd started losing his baby teeth. He was also at school now. Jack couldn't believe how big he was getting.

Jack shook his head minutely and smiled back at the reflection. The action was automatic, spreading across his face like a reflex triggered by the pull in his chest, as if its origin lay somewhere much deeper inside. It probably wasn't far from the truth, he thought.

"How ya doing there buddy?" he asked.

Charlie raised his hand and gave him an enthusiastic salute, the gap below his front teeth becoming more obvious as its frame of pearly whites broadened. He looked like some kind of wild child, and Jack couldn't help but chuckle.

Jack studied him for a beat longer, watching as his son's eyebrows started to pull together. And just like that the boy's expression changed completely.

"Mom was sad this morning."

_Mom_. _Not Mommy_. Even his language was sounding more grown-up. Jack worried sometimes that his sudden resurrection had changed Charlie in some fundamental way that could never be undone. He'd had four months of his life stolen as a POW in Iraq, and every time he had a nightmare, every time he saw tears in Sara's eyes, the count went up. How much of Charlie's life had been taken? How do you explain the concepts of duty, war and death to a six-year-old without aging him? And then how do you explain that it was all a mistake without forever altering his perception of reality? He felt so terribly out of his depth, and when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in his side mirror, the look in his eyes was that of a drowning man.

He glanced at his rear-view again, Charlie's attention drawn to the wintry landscape falling away behind them as they drove. The sky was heavy with cloud that was nearly the same colour as the snow covering the ground, leaving Jack with the distinct impression that he was trapped in a giant snow globe. He certainly felt like he was waiting for someone to shake him.

"Does Mom look sad often?" he asked, remembering Charlie's statement.

"Sometimes," Charlie replied quietly, pulling his eyes away from the window. "But not as much as before."

"Before I came back?"

Traffic was getting heavier so Jack returned his focus to the road in front of him, but still managed to catch Charlie's answering nod out the corner of his eye. It was something at least, and he felt himself breath a little easier.

"Are _you _sad?" Jack asked. He wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer.

"No sir!" And the toothless smile was back, like he'd never even mentioned his mother.

Not for the first time, Jack marvelled at the emotional openness and honesty of children. There was no pretense, no deception, no dwelling. They lived in the moment, felt absolutely everything, and would tell you their inner most thoughts if you just asked. You know the main difference between children and adults? Baggage, he thought. Baggage accumulated over years that was just an excuse adults used to justify the strange things they did, the twisted ways they behaved. It was just something to hide behind, and he desperately hoped that these past months hadn't left Charlie with his own. He wanted Charlie to stay just as he was because his artlessness always made him feel calmer, more centred.

He turned the truck off of the road and into the school parking lot, finding a spot a short walk from the main entrance. He hated leaving Charlie here, but the boy loved school. Jack turned in his seat, watching his son scrambling to unhook his seatbelt. He was sure if he sat still for long enough he could actually hear the little boy buzzing with excitement. He stepped out into the cold morning air and opened the back door.

"All set kiddo?"

Charlie pulled his woollen hat down a bit further over his ears and then thrust his hands out, showing Jack that he had his gloves on too, his smile bigger than ever.

"Well oookkay," Jack grinned and helped him down.

Charlie held out his hand and Jack grasped it firmly, turning towards the building. He knew Sara dropped Charlie off at the entrance now, but Jack liked walking his son in and Charlie never protested. He wondered if he was just showing off with his Air Force dad. His Air Force dad who came back from the dead. Colonel Zombie Dad, he thought. That's probably what they called him.

Jack stopped just short of the entrance and gave his son's hand a squeeze.

"Bye Dad," Charlie beamed, letting go and disappearing inside before Jack could even respond.

He nodded to a few of the parents he recognised before making his way back to the truck. He never hung around for very long - he couldn't stand the way they looked at him. It was a mix of pity and fear. God only knew why. It was like they were expecting him to self-destruct, to have some kind of mental break right there in front of his child's school. He felt his jaw clench involuntarily, the time spent slowly unwinding in Charlie's presence quickly dissipating like so much hot breath exhaled into the frigid January air.

He drove out of the lot and back into traffic, heading into town for gas, his mind still on the other parents at the school. Maybe they could see how listless he was - he was really sick of this extended leave he was on. David had insisted on it, and he could hardly argue with a General now could he? As if being put on the shelf temporarily was any kind of compensation for being listed as KIA. They'd given him a headstone in Arlington for Christ's sake. _Take all the time you need Jack._ His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.

The gas station was pretty empty after the early morning rush. Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and paced restlessly as he waited for the pump to click off, pushing clumps of dirty snow from the wheel arches of the truck with the toe of his boot. He found himself enjoying the numbness spreading into his extremities. Numb was better than tense.

A woman with a little girl followed him into the shop and he stepped back to let her pay first, idly wondering why the little girl wasn't in school. The woman bought a pack of cigarettes along with her gas, and Jack realised he was staring at the pack as the person behind the register passed it across the counter. He hadn't smoked a cigarette since high school but he remembered the foggy, lightheadedness of it. Mildly hazy seemed pretty appealing right now.

Sara was gonna kill him.

He wasn't really paying attention to the jingle of the little bell hanging over the door as he stepped up to the counter, assuming it was just the woman on her way out. But when the hairs on the back of his neck started to stand on end he knew something was wrong. Years of learning to reflexively anticipate and react to danger didn't fade in a just a few months. He wasn't surprised to see the cashier slowly raising his hands in the air.

"You too buddy."

Jack shifted his gaze from the cashier to the man now standing just inside the door. A man that was waving around a sawed-off shotgun like it was a toy. Jack could feel himself bristle, but reluctantly also raised his hands when he saw the woman and her child hadn't left after all. They were both still there, right by the door, and the look of fear on the little girl's face nearly short-circuited something in his brain. He could practically feel the blood pulling away from his limbs and pooling in his gut, preparing for a fight as his adrenaline skyrocketed.

She started to cry.

"Shut that little bitch up," the man spat, turning towards her.

"Easy," Jack said coolly, taking a small step forward.

"No one's talking to you."

The man swung the gun in Jack's direction and moved towards him, pressing the barrel threateningly against his chest. He could feel it even through the layers of clothing. _Nothing quite like the feel of cold steel_.

A flood of images and emotions from the previous night's dream ripped through him and for a second he thought he might actually pass out, nearly overwhelmed by that sense of powerlessness that he just couldn't seem to escape lately. He took a deep breath and focused on the robber, seeing the sweat beading at his temples, the slight hesitation in his movements. The man was nervous. Twitchy. And twitchy meant very, very, dangerous. The slightest thing was going to set this guy off and there was a hysterical child and increasingly panicked mother only a few feat away.

"Just gimme what's in the till and this will all be over." His eyes flicking to the cashier and then back to Jack's.

It occurred to him to just let the guy walk, but he couldn't. He couldn't stand by, couldn't be helpless. Not again.

He felt his heart rate even out, his training taking over like he was on autopilot. The weapon would have a wide spread, so he couldn't risk knocking it sideways and it was still aimed point-blank in the centre of his chest. But he had a plan. All he needed was a distraction.

As if on cue, the cashier fumbled a large wad of notes and the robber turned ever so slightly, the barrel sliding across the smooth leather of Jack's coat.

Jack went with it, rolling his shoulder back and pivoting in one fluid motion. Before the guy could react, Jack grabbed the font of the barrel and pushed straight up, at the same instant slamming the elbow of his free arm down into the robber's wrist where he was still gripping the stock, pushing down at such a ferocious angle and with such force that he heard the snap even over the ringing in his ears. He hadn't even realised that the gun had gone off right next to his head.

He stared at the weapon in his hand, feeling the weight of it. Little bits of plaster and dust drifted to the floor from the massive hole in the ceiling. The robber writhed uselessly on the floor.

And man, did it feel _good_. He almost couldn't stop the corner of his mouth curving up in satisfaction.

The mother collapsed to her knees and pulled her daughter into her arms, weeping openly now, the girl practically choking between sobs. The cashier just stood in stunned silence, eyes fixed on Jack.

"Wow, man."

"Call the cops," Jack said and started looking around for something to secure the robber. The cashier shook himself out of it and went for the phone while Jack tied the man's hands and dragged him across to the far wall of the shop. It looked like he'd passed out from the pain.

Depositing the gun on the counter, Jack walked over to the huddled pair by the door. The woman blinked at him, eyes shining with tears. He crouched beside them and put his hand on her shoulder. The little girl flinched.

"You're OK, ma'am. The police are on the way." He tried to sound as soothing as possible and the girl peeked around at him. It looked like she was calming down, and her mother nodded slowly.

"Thank you."

The cashier came over, leaning past Jack towards the two women and pressed steaming cups of what he could only imagine was cocoa into their hands.

"For the shock," he said.

"Good idea," Jack said and stood, distractedly running his hand through his hair.

"How did you do that sir?" The cashier had pulled out a few stools from the back room for them to sit on while they waited for the police.

"Jack, it's Jack," he replied and shrugged. "Military training."

"Cool. I'm Mike, by the way." He held out his hand and Jack shook it. "Say, did you fight in the Gulf?"

He didn't answer. He didn't think he could. The adrenaline was burning off and the tension was creeping over him again. He hadn't realised until now how anxious he felt - that it was there all the time.

He looked up at the cashier, "Can I get a pack of cigarettes and some gum with my gas?"

"Anything you want Jack - it's on me."

* * *

Later, Jack sat in his truck, parked down a side street a little way from his house. He wasn't ready to go home just yet.

He took a drag off of his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke out the open window, watching it hover and curl in the freezing air.

He thought about the feel of that shotgun in his hand, and how for a fleeting moment he'd felt in complete and utter control.

* * *

**__****A/N: I hope I haven't disappointed too many people by not writing a rescue scene. I was torn between making it dramatic or realistic. After quite a bit of research on POWs, I went for realistic. I hope you enjoy this anyway! As always, thank you followers/readers/reviewers!**

**__****Also, a thank you to fems for helping me on a section of this chapter - I have very little experience with children.**

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**


	13. Beginnings and Endings

**13.**

**Beginnings and Endings**

_**February 1992, Florida**_

She knew she didn't have to come all the way back to Hurlburt to do this, but one person in particular would hunt her to the ends of the earth if she didn't show her face. Sam wasn't sure she'd be safe even orbiting the planet at 17500 mph.

It had been a while since she'd walked down this corridor and she felt strangely out of place. Technically, she was still enlisted, but already it was as though she didn't belong here. She came to a stop, staring at the plain wood of the door in front of her. _Her _door. Her old door, anyway. She lifted her hand to knock, briefly wondering if she'd ever knocked on this door before, and rapped her knuckles against it.

She stood very still and listened. There was nothing but silence for a long minute and then Sam heard the muffled sounds of movement. The door pulled away from her still raised hand with such force she fell forward a little - not quite the cool and nonchalant arrival she'd been going for. Even so, she couldn't keep the grin from her own face as she watched the play of emotions across her friend's.

Liz let out a surprised squeal and threw her arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides.

"Tell me you've changed your mind." Liz's voice was muffled as she spoke into Sam's shoulder.

"Liz..."

"Tell me, or I'm going to make a big scene."

"There's no one out here but me," Sam said, glancing down both sides of the long corridor.

"A minor problem." Liz's tone was petulant and she made no attempt to move.

Sam chuckled and managed to get one forearm up and around to pat Liz on the back.

"Hey there stranger," she said, her voice quiet, and filled with more emotion than she'd intended.

Liz loosened her grip and stepped back, pulling Sam into the room. Sam could feel Liz's eyes studying her. She felt conspicuous in her dress blues but she'd thought they would be appropriate. Liz reached out and ran her thumb lightly over one of the ribbons pinned to her jacket - the Kuwait Liberation medal. A wave of sadness washed over her as she looked down at it, catching her off guard. It always did these days. It was probably because it wasn't constantly there with her, weighing on her mind, sitting at the edge of her thoughts. She went whole days now without thinking about it, and she realised that she was starting to forget them. It filled her with a mixture of relief and guilt.

"You weren't at any of the presentations," Liz said, her fingers still lingering on the ribbon.

"No," she answered, and pushed Liz's hand away.

Liz gave her a look that she knew only too well - the psychologist scrutinising their emotionally inept patient. Liz loved to psycho-analyse. She could tell Liz wanted to say more, but she was holding her tongue, possibly waiting for an explanation. Sam wasn't sure where she was meant to begin, and walked further into the room, turning away from Liz's penetrating gaze.

"Dammit, you do look better Sam."

Surprised, Sam spun back around towards Liz, the smile that greeted her was the one she remembered - open and genuine and teasing. The awkwardness between them dissolved and it was like they were roommates all over again. Sam couldn't help but smile back.

"I mean," Liz continued, "at the time, you looked pretty good for an ex-coma patient, but there was something so... _frail _about you." She tilted her head to the side like she was thinking and Sam resisted the urge to fill the silence that was stretching out between them.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I don't like admitting this, but you seem much more like your old self."

Sam's immediate reaction was to assure her that she was, but that wasn't true. She would never be the same again, and in that moment of realisation the walls that she'd been building steadily over the last few months crumbled. As she watched Liz, she knew what she was feeling must have been so clearly visible to her friend. She felt more exposed and raw than she'd done in a long time, and Liz closed the gap between them quickly, pulling her into another hug - one that was meant to comfort this time.

"I'm getting there." Sam finally managed.

They held onto each other for a long time before Sam pulled away and sat down on the bed. Liz plopped down next to her and patted her knee.

"You're here for your out-briefing, aren't you?"

"Oh yeah," Sam answered, gesturing at her uniform. "Why else would I be wearing this?"

"Last chance, Sam." Liz narrowed her eyes at her in a glare, but Sam could tell there was no real heat in the look.

"It's done, Liz. I didn't go through months of this separation process just to change my mind now."

"Hmmm..." Liz gave her another knowing look.

"This is what I want!" The exasperation bled into her voice and she knew she sounded terribly defensive. She took a deep breath. "This is what I _need_."

"I just want to be sure that you're sure," Liz said, giving Sam's knee another squeeze.

* * *

The airman at the security check-point saluted him without hesitation. It was all very business-like compared to the last time he'd been at these gates. This time around, as Jack returned the airman's salute, he knew that he looked every bit the full-bird Colonel. David had even sent a car for him - and for a change, he hadn't refused it. He was even kind of enjoying the little bit of tension he was generating in the security detail as they hurriedly signed him in and lifted the boom.

Despite the differences, he was having a hard time shaking the overwhelming sense of déjà vu that had been growing steadily since his plane had touched down in Florida. Accepting this new assignment, heading back into the field, leaving Sara and Charlie - some things never changed. Except that this time he couldn't really say that he was here mostly out of a sense of duty, nor was he overcome with guilt at leaving his family. That was new, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the dashboard as the driver pulled off and steered the car in the direction of the main building. He'd been tapping away nearly the entire ride over from the airport. It wasn't even subconscious on his part and he didn't give a damn. He could feel the corners of the packet of cigarettes that he had tucked inside his inner jacket pocket pressing against his chest, and it was a constant reminder of how badly he wanted one. _Just one_. But first he needed out of this car. He glanced over at the young man who was trying so hard to mask his ever increasing annoyance and he couldn't help but feel a little pity for him. It just wasn't enough to make him stop.

_Tap tap tap..._

* * *

Sam had left Liz back at the dorm, refusing her friend's offer of company as she headed over for her final briefing. She could feel the nerves twisting in her gut and for a moment she'd been tempted to accept, but she needed to do this alone. Liz knew it too - she hadn't even tried to look disappointed at Sam's rejection.

Now, more than an hour later, Major Richardson held out his hand to her in farewell. Every instinct made her want to lift her hand to her forehead instead, to salute a fellow officer as she was trained to do. Her brain fought to overcome reflex. He must've noticed her hesitation because he stretched out his arm a little further towards her and smiled kindly. She finally grasped his hand in a firm shake, surprising herself with how confident the action seemed when her heart was actually hammering away in her chest and her limbs felt vaguely like jello. _You're a civilian now, Sam._

She couldn't believe it was over.

"We wish you all the best, Dr. Carter."

The smile on her face faltered, and although Major Richardson's expression was still gentle, his words had sounded rehearsed and slightly dismissive, with an emphasis on her title. She was being given the party line that she knew was meant to make her feel like a failure, a quitter, and it did have the desired effect - for all of ten seconds before she fixed him with a firm look and released his hand politely, but with an abruptness that he obviously hadn't been expecting. The nervousness that had been churning inside her dissipated rapidly then.

"Thank you Major Richardson," she said sweetly with a tilt of her head and a casual grin that she hoped conveyed how much she really didn't care what this military administrator thought of her or her decision. "I wasn't expecting the officer doing this out-briefing to be so _understanding_."

She could tell that he got her full meaning because his mouth fell open a little. Without another word she walked away from him, back towards the reception area, and she knew he was watching her go. As she stepped up to the desk to sign out he was no longer in view, but she hoped that he was still standing where she'd left him, trying to figure out how it was that he'd ended up being the one dismissed.

* * *

_...tap tap TAP._

The car came to a stop and Jack practically leapt out. He was sure he heard the driver exhale a sigh of relief as he did. He leant back inside the passenger door and schooled his expression into something resembling a scowl, directing it at the young man behind the wheel.

"Did you say something?"

"No Sir!"

The startled, 'deer caught in headlights' look on the kid's face was enough to break Jack's composure and he felt the corner of his mouth tilt up in a grin.

"It's OK, Airman," he said, still grinning. "Pop the trunk and I'll grab my duffel."

"Yes Sir. No problem Sir." The airman's eyes were like saucers.

"Thanks for the lift, son."

He stepped away from the car to shut the door and heard the kid release another shaky sigh. He paused momentarily, tempted to keep going with this, but decided against it. Now that he was out of the car he was starting to feel a little remorseful - he hadn't even asked the kid his name, and that wasn't like him. He was doing a lot of things lately that weren't like him and it was unsettling. He finally closed the door and the trunk popped open. He retrieved his bag, flinging it over his shoulder as he headed for the entrance.

Not long now, he thought. Not long, and he'd be back out in the field with a team and a mission, and things could start getting back to normal. Sara would see. When he got home after this, she would see that it was for the best.

* * *

"Dr. Carter."

The voice wasn't one that she recognised. She was relieved at that, because the last thing she wanted to do was have another conversation with Major Richardson, but the fact that the person addressed her as 'Doctor' when the final forms hadn't even been filed yet was certainly surprising, if not disconcerting. Whoever he was, he had her attention.

She looked up from the sign-out sheet that the receptionist had handed her, immediately noticing the stars on the man's shoulders, and blinked.

"General Matthews, Sir."

She'd never actually met him, but it was obvious who he was, and he seemed to know exactly who she was. That wobbly feeling in her legs was starting to return.

"Please, Doctor, no need for the 'Sir'," he said in a friendly tone that somehow also managed to be commanding. "Would you join me in my office?"

For a heartbeat she wondered if this had anything to do with her parting comment to Major Richardson, but that wasn't likely - she'd only just left him, and what could he possibly say about it anyway?

No, this was something else, and she had to admit that she was curious.

Without waiting for a response from her, he turned and walked back down the hall, and despite the uneasiness she felt, she found herself following him.

* * *

The woman behind the desk gave him a warm smile and a nod. Jack didn't recognise her at all, but he tipped his cover at her anyway and removed his aviators.

"Ma'am."

"Colonel," she replied. "How may I help you?"

"Is the General available?"

"He's actually just gone into a meeting, sir."

"Do you know if he'll be long?"

"He didn't have the appointment in his diary, so I don't think he will be."

Her manner was brisk, but polite, and knowing David, she was most likely highly efficient - he could be fairly demanding of his staff. Jack tapped his sunglasses idly on the counter in front of her and watched as she pursed her lips. Highly efficient, and _testy_, he thought.

"I'll wait," he offered, hauling his duffel over to the seating area.

* * *

The General pulled the door closed behind her and moved around behind his desk. It was modest, not one of the enormous and unnecessary things carved from deep, rich, wood that she always pictured generals and politicians sitting at.

For the second time in just a few minutes she was caught off guard, and judging by the expression on his face, it probably wasn't going to be the last time either. He motioned her towards the chair nearest her.

"Have a seat, Dr. Carter."

She silently lowered herself into it and folded her hands nervously in front of her.

"What can I do for you, Sir?"

"Straight down to business," he said, taking a seat himself. "I like that. And please, call me David, there's no longer a need for military protocol."

"In that case, you can call me Sam," she said with a little more force than she'd meant, but he smiled broadly at her anyway.

"Sam, the Pentagon has been looking for one of our best and brightest scientists to work on a highly classified project, but unfortunately for me, as of today, our best and brightest is no longer _ours_."

Sam wasn't sure how to respond to that. Was he suggesting that she change her mind? Was he even giving her a choice? She felt a lump rising in her throat.

"Sir, are you asking me to re-enlist?"

"It's David," he said, taking a file from one of his drawers and carefully placing it on the desk in front of her. Sam swallowed, and looked around the room in the hope of finding a water-cooler, but spotted only a jug and glasses right behind the General. He was watching her closely and turned immediately to pour her some. "I'm sorry, how rude of me. And the answer to your question is: no."

Some of the tension drained out of her as she gratefully accepted the glass of water from him, but she was still as confused as ever. She didn't even attempt to open the file sitting in front of her.

"How can I possibly help then?" she asked.

"Well, Sam, the Pentagon was looking for a military scientist because they can fast-track the clearance. They also tend to be more disciplined." There was that smile again, she thought. "But from a political viewpoint, a civilian contractor is always a better prospect."

_Ah_. The penny had finally dropped. She was the best of both worlds for them now. She wondered how long they'd been planning this proposal, or was it just an unexpected opportunity? She imagined David would tell her if she asked, but it didn't really matter. Her brain was working overtime now, trying to figure out what kind of classified project the Pentagon would need an astrophysicist for.

"I'm guessing this is the paperwork for the clearance?" She rested her hand on the file.

"That's exactly right," he said with a nod.

"Do I get to find out anything about this project before I sign these?"

"I'm afraid not, Sam."

She'd only just met this General, but he seemed sincere, and Sam decided that she liked him a lot. His eyes remained fixed intently on hers and she saw the sparkle in them. Whatever this thing was, even he was excited by it.

The scientist in her had made her decision minutes ago.

"May I have a pen?" she asked, but he was already passing one across to her.

* * *

_Tap tap tap..._

He was drumming on the back of one of the chairs and the receptionist glared at him. It had only been about fifteen minutes, but that packet of cigarettes was just getting heavier and heavier in his pocket. He tossed his cover onto his duffel and ran his hand absently through his hair.

_Screw it._

"Ma'am, I'll be back in a few minutes."

And he walked back out the door.

* * *

Sam made her way back into reception to sign out for the second time that day, except this time around she was riding out on a high that she just hadn't been expecting. Whatever this was, it was big, and she was going to be a part of it.

She was about to flash the receptionist one of her brightest smiles when she noticed someone walking out the door. He was gone in a second, but his height and his build, even the way he moved, was so similar to the Colonel's that she felt the loss all over again like a kick in the gut.

It had been nearly a year, but she was still seeing ghosts.

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry, it's not time yet! And also, I cannot apologise enough for the long break. I had this outline done for weeks, but every time I sat down to write, the universe conspired against me. I sincerely hope it never happens again, and I hope you all enjoy this one - it's a little different from my usual. **_**__****As always, thank you followers/readers/reviewers!**

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.**


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